


You Jump, I Jump

by S_IRIS



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Titanic (1997)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Parentlock, Romance, Tragedy, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 169,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1414684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_IRIS/pseuds/S_IRIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>20-year olds John and Mike win two tickets aboard Titanic which is bound for the States. During the journey on the dream ship, John meets the love of his life. </p><p>17-year old Sherlock Holmes boards the Titanic reluctantly, leaving his freedom and his beloved city behind to be what is expected from an Omega in the conservative times of 1912. During the journey on the dream ship, he meets the love of his life. </p><p>A love story through one of the worst maritime disasters of all time and one of the worst wars in the history of mankind.</p><p>A Sherlock Omegaverse fic set in Titanic AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Set For The Journey

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings in advance:** Death and violence in general, given the disaster of Titanic's sinking and the WWI. A few non-con situations. I won't say that this is smutty but yeah, there's lots of sex, consensual and otherwise. Two major character deaths, one is justified (I think but I shouldn't say that about anyone) and one (spoiler alert! Because it hasn't come in the story yet) not. Omegaverse, my version so some of the traditional fan-fictiony views are not there. That being said. . .
> 
> Oh yeah, it doesn't end with Titanic. Well, in a way it does, but not the immediate end. So you could say that this is an AU inspired by the movie but the part II plot is more original.
> 
>  
> 
> **Update: Part II is done. Part III will be uploaded shortly :)**

**Part I: The Ship Of Dreams**

\---

Southampton, England, April 10, 1912, 11:35 am

The gleaming black and white body of the gigantic White Star Line leviathan called the RMS Titanic stands beyond the rails, ready for her maiden voyage. Some say that she is unsinkable. God himself could not sink the ship. A crowd of hundreds, consisting of numerous White Star Line officials, tearful family members and joyful youths blacken the pier next to Titanic like ants on a jelly sandwich. Crewmen move across the deck, dwarfed by the enormous size of the steamer.

She is a gorgeous thing, the 'ship of the dreams', designed so that none could challenge its might. She is said to be the largest thing ever made by human hands and the most luxurious cruise in the whole world. First class ticket holders board the massive thing via an elevated boarding bridge, very keen to avoid the smelly press of the dockside crowd. People down, mostly third class passengers crane their neck upwards, trying to take in her sheer size at one glance and failing at it.

"Big boat, huh?" Says a humbly-dressed man to his little daughter, both looking with awe at the ship.

"Daddy, it's a ship!" she shakes her head at her daddy's stupidity.

On the pier, there appear two handsome cars, moving slowly through the dense crowd. The driver of the first car rushes to pull one of its doors open, revealing a tall handsome young man, dressed in a finely cut black two-piece suit, shiny leather shoes and gloved palms. Dark chocolate coloured curls rest nonchalantly on his head and he's unwilling to hide them under a bowler hat clutched in his right hand. His eyes are grey and piercing as he surveys the commotion around him with disdain, appearing completely unfazed by the awesome size of the Titanic. His face is long and angular, with razor sharp cheekbones gleaming as the rays of the sun partially covered behind clouds hit his face, giving him a regal appearance.

A personal valet opens the door on the other side of the car. A man, at least twenty five, emerges, looking splendid in a grey three-piece suit and a bowler hat, looking up at the ship like a father looks at his son who just made him the proudest man in the world. He reeks of Alpha arrogance and money beyond imagination. There's a handsome, excessively polished wooden stick in his hands. He checks his pocket watch. They were almost late.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," he tells the older man, his voice rich and deep for a seventeen year old, "Yes, it may look like an extra ninety feet longer than the Mauretania, but that's something hardly worth changing the reservations at the last moment."

The older man rolls his eyes dramatically, "You can blase about some things, Sherlock, but not Titanic! Not just over a hundred feet long, but far more luxurious. It has squash courts, swimming pools, a Parisian cafe... even Turkish baths," he speaks as if he were the ship's promoter.

The young man called Sherlock walks away, refusing the hand that the older man offers him, as soon as he hears about the various features of the ship that he isn't interested in. The Alpha simply shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders at another man descending from the car behind him. He smiles pleasantly at him. He is completely alien from his little brother, and complies very cheerfully with the societal norms dictated for Alphas and Omegas.

"Your brother is much too hard to impress, Mycroft. Uh, mind your step."

"So, this is the ship that they call unsinkable?"

"It's not _unsinkable,_ Mycroft," says Sherlock, glaring at the other Alpha, "Mr. Thomas Andrews proclaimed that it is _practically unsinkable_. The press simply dropped 'practically' to make it sound like Noah's ark!"

"It is _unsinkable,_ Sherlock," the Alpha raises his voice loud enough for both the brothers to hear, "Even God himself cannot sink it if he wanted to."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, wanting to say something about the ship being mortal but keeping quiet because the Alpha simply isn't worth it, and stalks away, with Mycroft close behind him. Their valet and a maid emerge behind them, stunned into inaction by the massive ship they were going to stay in for the next one week. A White Star Line porter scurries towards them, seemingly harassed by their last minute boarding.

"Sir, you'll have to check your baggage through the main terminal, through that way-"

His eyes dilate as the Alpha thrusts a five pound note into his hands, "I put my faith in you, good sir!" He indicates towards his valet, "See my man," he dismisses him as the porter thanks him profusely. The valet, a tough, dour ex-Pinkerton cop, drags him away, showing him the overwhelming amount of luggage. They were emigrating to America, taking all their belongings with them.

The Alpha breezes on, leaving the minions to scuttle about and enjoying the effect of money on the good masses. He leads the two men, taking Sherlock's hand in his possessively. The young man tries to extract himself from his grip, "Victor! Let me check whether my Chemistry set-"

The Alpha called Victor Trevor, heir to the elder Trevor's gold mines in California, lets him shoot away and give the instructions to their maid/housekeeper/cook, making sure that she handles his delicate equipment carefully.

"We better hurry up. We're already late."

He indicates the way towards the first class gangway. They move out of the crowd. Mrs. Hudson, the Holmes' maid/housekeeper/cook, and Andrea, Mycroft Holmes' personal secretary, hustle behind them. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock are carrying his Chemistry set. The Holmes were one of the most reputed families in South England, very rich and the owner of the several indigo plantations across India and the Caribbean Islands. Then, Germany came up with synthetic indigo and their businesses shut down rapidly, causing the elder Holmes to put a pistol in his mouth the previous year. Andrea was a personal secretary for namesake. Or until the distant future if Mycroft Holmes ever decided to go back into industry business.

Sherlock's marriage to Victor was supposed to straighten things for the Holmes family, give them economic stability. To them, it was merely a contract to ensure their survival.

The young man observes every single action taking place on the pier, from the health inspection queue to the other quintessential upper class families, not unlike themselves, boarding the cruise. Not much of interest, he decides, before turning his attention back to the snobbish Alpha in front of him.

"Here, let me help you with that, sweetpea."

Sherlock frowns at the nickname and pulls his things away from Victor adamantly, like a petulant child. He is a child in many ways, extremely stubborn and rebellious, although he knows that their current situation is precarious and he doesn't let Victor see even a shadow of his inherent craziness.

"I love it when you make that face," Victor winks at him, and picks up most of his luggage. Sherlock walks away, furious that his efforts at driving him away do not work properly and joins his brother. Victor smiles knowingly and dumps all the equipment on Mrs. Hudson's shoulders, freeing himself to admire the splendid liner.

"Honestly, Victor!" Mycroft turns to him, "If you weren't forever booking everything at the last moment, we could have gone through the terminal instead of running along the dock like some squalid immigrant family."

Sherlock does not understand his brother. They weren't any less broke. Why did he have to act like he was the master of the universe?

"All part of the charm, Mycroft. At any rate, it was my darling fiancee's rituals which made us late."

"You should have informed me two days earlier that we were going to America. I would have packed all this stuff beforehand. What do you expect me to do for one full week with less than 300 metres of length?"

Sherlock knew why he hadn't been informed. He had once tried to run away from home shortly after he had become engaged to Victor. Mycroft did not want a repeat of that.

"Here I've pulled every string I could to book us on the grandest ship in history, in her most luxurious suites... and you act as if you're going to your execution."

Sherlock looks up as the hull of Titanic looms over them...a great iron wall, Bible black and severe. Victor motions him forward, his hand in his, and he enters the gangway to the D Deck doors with a sense of overwhelming dread.

It was a ship of dreams to everyone else... but to him, it is a slave ship, taking him away from the country he loved to America in chains of matrimony. Outwardly, he is everything a well brought-up Omega could aspire to be. On the inside, he was screaming.

 

* * *

 

The steamer's whistle blows across Southampton. In a pub, there's a very serious game going on, two Swedish men, thirtyish, on one side, a handsome blond and a red, slightly chubby guy, both English and just twenty, on the other side of the round table, all dressed in worker class' clothes. They're playing poker, and two third class tickets to the RMS Titanic have been bet along with the shiny pennies.

The English guys exchange glances as a sullen argument in Swedish is happening across the table.

"Hit me again, Sven," says the blond. He takes a card and slips it into his hand. The fellow named Sven looks at him, failing to deduce anything from his poker face.

The red guy licks his lips, and he clearly is very adept at giving away his inner thoughts.

The Titanic's whistle blows again. Final warning.

"What if we lose, huh?" says he to his blond friend.

"When we've got nothing, we have nothing to lose. Alright then. Showdown, boys," the blond looks at them unnervingly, "Someone's life's about to change."

The red bloke puts his cards down. So do the Swedes. He keeps his close.

"Hmm... let's see, Mike's got nothing. Olaf has nothing too. Sven... uh, oh, two pair... shit... Sorry Mike"

The Swedes look victorious for a moment. Mike is furious, "What sorry? How dare you lose my money? Did- did you bet all of it-?"

"Sorry that you're not going to be able to see your mother for a very, very long time becaaaause..."

He slaps down his hand on the table, revealing a full house, "...Cause, we're going to America! Full house, boys!!! Woohoo!!!"

Mike screams out in delight, "Yeah!!!" He pulls the blond guy into a crushing hug, "I love you, John!!! Love you! We're going to America!!!" He presses a kiss to John's cheeks in happiness.

"Yeah, yeah," John pushes him away, "Too much happy, too much happy, Mike. . . Jesus Christ!"

Olaf grabs John by the collar. For one second, it looks like he's going to punch John right in the face. John screws up his features in the anticipation of the blow, but Olaf's fist turns at the last moment and collides with Sven's jaw, making him topple out of the chair. John and Mike laugh gleefully, and John climbs on his friend's back, demanding to be paraded around the smoky pub like some sort of local hero.

"Yeah... we're going to America," Mike sings, kissing the two tickets and stuffing them in his pocket, "To the home o' the free and the land o' real hot dogs!!! And on Titanic! We're royalty now, John!"

"No mate," the barkeeper points at the clock, "Titanic go to America. In five minutes." It was five minutes to twelve. They glance out of the small window. Sure enough, the steamer's all set to leave, billowing out thick black clouds of sooty smoke.

"Bugger! Come on, Mike!" They stuff all the coins into their bags and pockets and make a run for the door, determined to catch the luxury steamer. John comes to a dead stop when he sees the hull of the huge ship. Mike runs back and grabs John, almost dragging him to the bottom of the boarding ramp, as soon as it is detached from the gangway doors.

"Hey, hey, hey!!!" John cries out, "Wait, we're passengers!"

Sixth Officer Moody looks at him like he doesn't believe them. Upon producing the tickets, he casts his eyes over them, "Have you gone through the health inspection queue?"

"Yeah, of course!" he lies convincingly, and then adopts a very horrible American accent, "We're Americans, dude! Both of us!"

"Don't sound like one to me," he replies testily, but lets them come aboard anyway.

Mike and John hug again, "We're the luckiest sons of bitches in the whole world, John!"

"I hear you!"

John and Mike burst through a door onto the aft well deck. They get to the rail and John starts to yell and wave to the crowd on the dock. Mike looks surprised.

"You know somebody?"

"Of course not. But that's not the point. Goodbye, y'all!"

Mike clambers onto the rails as well, following John and waving furiously, revelling in the exhilaration of the moment, "Bye bye, I'll miss you all very much! I'll never forget you!!!"

The crowd of the cheering well-wishers waves back as the black wall of Titanic moves away from them, tugged by small boats. They feel the engines starting, initiating the steady vibrations. The two men keep on waving until they're tired enough to retreat back to their quarters.

 

* * *

 

"This one's it, John!" Mike pushes open the door to reveal two more Swedes sitting and talking in low voices. They look at the newcomers, wondering where their friend was. John shakes hands with them, introducing himself and then turns to find that Mike had already occupied the top bunk.

"Who says you get top bunk, huh?"

"Hey, my name starts with 'S', yours with 'W', so I get top bunk. Didn't they teach you this in school?"

"Wanker!" John aims a punch at his friend's face but turns away at the last moment, "Want to see the view from the bow part? I bet there'll be whales there!"

 

* * *

 

Victor traipses around the private promenade deck of the "Millionaire Suite", comprising of two bedrooms, a bath, a wardrobe room and a tastefully decorated sitting room. Sherlock is busy setting up his experiment apparatus in his room, running from one place to another. Mrs. Hudson helps him. She's very fond of him, and has looked after him right from his childhood like a mother. Even Sherlock's very fond of her, although he tries his best not to show it in any way. Victor's valet is ordering the room service and the porters around, putting each thing in its place.

"This is your private promenade deck sir," says the butler, "Would you be requiring anything, sir?"

Victor dismisses him with a wave of the tulip-shaped wineglass in his hand. The butler gives him a short bow and retreats away. Mycroft has his separate suite so that Sherlock and Victor could court before they got married, although, at the former's fervent request, they have separate bedrooms. As for Sherlock, he was more than happy not to have been stuck with his brother in the same suite for seven days.

"Oh, no!" the Alpha's voice travels over through the room and reaches Sherlock sitting on his new bed, "Not those stupid experiments again! Sweetpea, you know that if you blow something up, I'll have to reimburse the whole amount!"

Sherlock appears at the doorway, looking extremely busy, "I'm your fiancee, darling. You'll have to pay, won't you?" There's an underlying mockery in the way he says 'fiancee' and 'darling', something Victor chooses not to see, "And my experiments are quite safe, I assure you. I _never_ blow anything up!"

Victor leans against the doorframe and sips his wine, leering at him, "Your brother doesn't agree with you, dear."

"Does he ever?"

Victor and his valet share a laugh, "Pretty tough for an Omega, huh?"

"Oh, you have no idea. He doesn't even know that it makes him look more adorable!"

He walks into Sherlock's bedroom, where Mrs. Hudson is bombarding him with her endless chatter, "It's all so new... the sheets have never been slept in and I can still smell the paint. Like they built it all for us. I mean... just to think that when I crawl between the sheets tonight, I'll be the first-"

Victor bites his lower lip as Sherlock turns to face him, "And when _I_  crawl between the sheets tonight, I'll still be the first."

Sherlock turns away, clearly uncomfortable by the innuendo, torn between throwing a tantrum and pointing out to Victor that they had separate bedrooms. Mrs. Hudson blushes a little and excuses herself out of the room as Victor advances over to his fiancee and wraps his arms around his waist. It is an act of possession, not of intimacy. He presses a kiss onto Sherlock's pale neck and whispers, his hot breath making the Omega's breath hitch against his wishes, "The first and the only. _Forever."_ He turns him around and looks into Sherlock's pale eyes before claiming his lips for himself.

Sherlock does not kiss back. He never does. His eyes stay open. Dead and impassive. 


	2. Colpo Di Fulmine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm not going to mess with the real characters on the Titanic such as Mr. Andrews or Molly Brown either. I figured that it'll be dishonouring their memory if I substitute them with fictional characters.
> 
> The Chapter title is in Italian, meaning 'thunderbolt'. Course, love strikes John like lightning, thunder blah, blah, blah... sickeningly poetic, I know! Forgive me, I can be very pathetic sometimes.

"She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history, and our master shipbuilder here, Mr. Andrews designed her from the keel plates up."

Mr. J. Bruce Ismay, managing director of White Star Line, is seated at the head of the table with Victor, Sherlock, Mycroft, Andrea and a woman called Margaret 'Molly' Brown. He indicates them to a handsome fortyish Beta sitting to the Molly's right, smiling modestly at them. The group are having their lunch and are talking about the ship's grandeur, surrounded by the soft creamy light of the afternoon filtering in through the high arched windows. Sherlock, although very disinterested in the ship's luxurious features, is quite keen to know more about its design and engineering, and upon insisting, is promised a complete tour of vessel, including the engine room and the captain's quarters.

A waiter attends to Andrea. She is clad in a long pale green tea dress, with a torrid red sash worn on her waist, her fair hands covered in white gloves. Her hair is tied up in a loose bun with artfully careless curls draped along her neck. A single diamond pendant, matching with the hue of her dress, hangs from a slender silver chain. She's beautiful and blends in perfectly with the other high class people of the room.

Seated next to her is Margaret Brown, looked down upon by the other members of "the club". Her husband had struck gold someplace out west, and she's what most of the narrow-minded upper class called 'new money'. She's wearing a enormous feathered hat and a black dress with red-lace trimmings. She's following Mr. Ismay's every word closely while keeping an eye on the dynamic between Sherlock and Victor.

Seated on other end of the table and next to Andrea and Sherlock is Mycroft Holmes, constantly supervising his little brother's conduct. it's almost laughable to see how many people at the table are eyeing the "most charming couple aboard the ship" as if they were something that might fall down and break if they lose the spotlight. Undoubtedly, it is a smart match between Victor Trevor and William Scott Sherlock Holmes—the smartest of the smart—because Sherlock is considered a prize going by the reputation of the Holmeses in South England, the extremely dominating Alpha brother—which only adds to the fact that if the Alpha brother is extreme in his dominance, extending the logic, Sherlock being an Omega must be extreme in his submissiveness—and of course, the extremely appealing looks. Dark Omega curls, pale skin with the glow of youth, not too lean, and not too healthy, the appealing curves of his body, of at the back of his shoulders to the small of his back and . . . Sherlock didn't listen beyond that, seeing as his Omega anatomy was a little too freely discussed among social masses.

And of course, there is Victor, one of the young generation, owns gold mines in Alleghany, California. Rich, successful, handsome like he can give the devil a run for his money, charming and who gazes at Sherlock as an osprey watches a salmon.

Though, in many social circles, their impending matrimony is viewed as novel and too progressive. It's very rare for an Alpha to be so close in age to their prospective Omega partner—" _Thirty and seventeen, you've got to be joking!_ "— but when people hear Victor's side of the story of how he and Sherlock fell in love at the first sight during their visit to the Holmes estate, there's no debating regarding the supremely satisfying marriage that they are going to be tied in.

Sherlock snatches a surreptitious glance at the graceful, handsome Alpha beside him. There's indeed no debating.

He and Victor and seated side by side on the other side of the table on Victor's non-dominant side as requires the Omegas, made sure by all the people in the world that they are never to be separated. Sherlock is hooked onto every word of Mr. Andrews, while Victor is mildly interested, talking more to Colonel Gracie about how the newest industrial policies regarding the safety of workers in the mines were wreaking havoc on the healthy economic growth of the nation. All the men are dressed in black with the exception of Mr. Ismay.

To Molly's right is the shipbuilder Thomas Andrews, an Irish engineer of the Harland and Wolff Shipbuilders. He is very modest about his great achievement and tells their group about the ship like a schoolmaster teaching his students.

"Well, I may have put her together, but the pioneer is Mr. Ismay. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in her appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is, willed into solid reality."

"And with a mortifying turning radius!" Sherlock mutters under his breath. Mycroft almost misses his aim with the fork, causing Sherlock to smirk up at him followed by a grimace as he feels a kick under the table. He wants to snap and tell him that kicking the Omega brother under the tables does not befit an older Alpha brother. But he and Mycroft have never really kept to their gender roles amongst themselves, so he really can't complain.

"Hear, hear!" Everyone raise their glasses to Mr. Andrews in a gesture of hearty congratulations. Victor just manages to grab his as they all put their glasses down. He returns back to his conversation.

"Why're ships always bein' called 'she'?" Molly is a tough talking straightshooter and very feminist in her ideas, "Is it because Alphas think half the women around here have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?"

All of them except Victor and Mycroft laugh good-naturedly at that. Mycroft merely stretches his lips in an insincere smile.

"Just another example of Alphas settin' the rules their way."

The waiter arrives at the other side of the table, ready to take orders. Sherlock lights a cigarette. Mycroft casts a furtive glance at all the participants of the conversation. They do not appear scandalised at the sight of an Omega smoking even though they should be. But after all, Gracie and Molly are American, far more liberal about Omega stereotypes, and Andrews and Ismay are way too busy with the ship.

"You know people don't like that, Sherlock," he says sternly.

Victor and Sherlock both turn to him. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him and blows the smoke in his brother's face masterfully. He tries to stifle his coughing behind the tablecloth.

"He knows." Victor takes the cigarette from him and stubs it out before turning to the waiter. He takes the liberty to order for Sherlock as well, asserting his Alpha dominance, might as well get used to it because he's going to do that for the rest of their lives.

"We'll both have the lamb. Rare, with a little mint sauce."

Sherlock stares at him, outraged at the false sense of entitlement that Victor assumes, but doesn't say anything. After a moment of consideration, the Alpha turns to him, "You like lamb, don't you sweetpea?"

There's no point in the seeking the Omega's opinion. It is simply a display of the faux-considerate nature that Victor does not possess. Sherlock smiles sweetly at him and looks away. His eyes lock onto those of Molly Brown, who tries to look like she understands his dilemma perfectly well. He isn't seeking for sympathy or reassurance. He just wants a way out. At this moment, with a deck circumference of about only one mile and endless ocean surrounding them, there's no way out.

"You gonna cut his meat for him there too, Vic?"

Victor flashes a threatening smirk at her, the sort that says ' _this is none of your business_ '. She looks amused and steers the direction of the tension away to the topic of talk, "Hey, who came up with the name 'Titanic'? Was it you, Bruce?"

Mr. Ismay looks very smug, "Well, yes. . . actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury. . . and above all, strength."

The explanation makes him a victim of Sherlock's bad mood. He smiles very politely. "Have you heard of Dr. Freud? His ideas about the Alpha preoccupation with _size_ might be of particular interest to you, Mr. Ismay."

Molly and Mr. Andrews give him a winning smile as they continue their lunch. Mycroft beautifully manages to look aloof as he chokes on his breadstick.

"Excuse me," Sherlock pushes his chair back noisily as he rises and walks out of the lunchroom. Victor looks very irritated. Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews try to acknowledge his leave, whilst the former looks quite affronted at his incomplete knowledge about a Dr. Freud.

"He's one pistol, Vic," Molly flashes his smirk back at him, "Hope you can handle him."

Victor chews the insides of his cheeks in silent tension as he feigns unconcern, "Well, I may have to start minding what he reads from now on, won't I, Mrs. Brown?"

He believes that the argument is won, that dominance is the only answer to Sherlock's general offending conduct. Molly inwardly shakes her head at how ignorant he is.

"Freud, who is he? Is he a passenger?"

* * *

 John is sitting on a bench on the deck in the sun, reading a book while Mike and a young English emigrant are playing a game of cards. It is a medical journal. John always wanted to be a doctor and help people get well all over the world. None of that became possible till now. His only hope was to go to America and study medicine. . . somehow. He studies whenever he gets free time. There's the same working class father standing beside him by the rails, his little daughter in his arms, clutching a doll to her chest. He is showing her seagulls. John watches them for some time, remembering his own father, before turning his attention to a crew member walking three dogs on the deck, shooing people away.

"That's typical," the English fellow scowls at them, drinking a generous amount of smoke into his lungs, "First class dogs come down here to take a shite!"

John shrugs his shoulders, "Lets us know where we rank in the scheme of things."

The former smiles, "Yeah. Like we could ever forget. . ." after a minute of consideration, he stuffs the cigarette between his lips and leans forward to shake his hands with John, "I'm Greg Lestrade."

"John Watson."

"And I'm Mike. Hi!"

"Hello. So, you want to be a doctor, huh?" says he to John, indicating the black and white anatomy figures on the journal.

John does not reply. The crease between his brows disappear. He straightens up unconsciously as he stares at Sherlock's tall regal figure leaning against the rails. His mouth hangs slightly ajar and he's unable to take his eyes off him. They're away from each other, with the well deck like a gulf between them. He's on an elevated platform, while John is looking up at him from below. Sherlock is staring down at the water, frowning, not out of a general displeasure of the sea breeze messing up his curls like he pretends to, but due to deep sadness even at so tender an age, something only John can see and has seen.

How could such a beautiful creature be so full of sadness?

He watches him take something off his ring finger and stare at it for sometime like it was the most absurd puzzle in the whole world. John is riveted by Sherlock; the feeling in his chest hits him like lightning, sudden and strong and overwhelming.

Greg waves his hands in front of him, trying to recapture his attention, "Hey, boyo!"

John pushes his hand away. Sherlock looks like a figure from a romantic novel, sad and melancholy. Mike and Greg laugh.

"Forget it, mate! You'd as like have angels fly outta yer arse as get next to the likes of an Omega like him!"

He's an Omega, John notes absently. God, he's an Omega. He's never seen a real Omega. He's never seen anyone like that, even for an Omegas depicted in children's books. Because John has always seen Omegas as short, submissive. But this one. The curls, the angular face, the cultivated grace gives it all away, like on display in a museum. And yet there's something else.

John does not pay attention as he continues watching him, thrown in a trance. Sherlock suddenly turns towards them and John is caught staring. The Omega looks a little irritated and harassed, for the lack of better words, but John doesn't look away. Sherlock dismisses him like any ordinary person, who just happened to glance at him the same moment he did.

John does not give up. He turns toward him, almost as if presenting himself to an Omega like his instincts order him to. He continues watching him, trying to draw his attention. The Omega does turn to look sideways at him again, realising that he had been staring at him all along. He looks like he's removed from his thoughts momentarily as their eyes meet across the space of the well deck, across the gulf between their worlds.

John's heart is starting to pick up as their eyes lock even over that great distance, the hair on the nape of his neck tingling with something unnamed—maybe anticipation, maybe fascination or a sense of belonging. Sorrow has a tendency of bringing people together, but it isn't a heavy feeling that John feels. It is like a crescendo of jubilant opera music—

A taller, immaculately dressed man comes up to him, to the Omega, grabbing his arm and confronting him. Alpha. John's attention piques even more, even after he realises that he must be already Bonded to him, or at least promised to him. But that does not stop him from watching the couple argue over something, and the Omega storming away inside. John stares after him, inwardly cursing the Alpha for driving him away from him.

John stares after him, wishing he could bring a smile to that face.

* * *

Sherlock is sitting in the dining saloon, with Mycroft and Victor on his side. He's staring at the modest portion of the pork roast served to him on the gleaming china in front of him. The dinner jacket is a little tight at his shoulders, making his back feel itchy. Mycroft, unlike his little brother, could mingle effortlessly even for his general disdain of people, as he gulps down copious amounts of food and wine down his throat and engages in the mindless prattle of the upper class men and women. A lot of people are congratulating Victor on his engagement to Sherlock. As for the Omega, he's nowhere, not at the dinner table, not in the ship, not back in his London home, not even in his mind. He sits there, camouflaged by the glimmer of the first class. He can predict his whole life. An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches, and always the same batch of narrow people and the same monotonous banter.

He often felt like he was standing on the edge of a great waterfall, with no one to pull him back if he strayed into it, no one who cared. . . He'd pass out of existence and no one would ever notice.

What if he created a scene now, what if he was hurt now? People couldn't see the asphyxiation inside, being the blind fools that they were, but would they see him even if he was bleeding out? Would they? Or would they pretend not to notice that at all? Sometimes he feels like he can just stand up and scream his lungs out saying _Please, look at me. Don't make me do this. I really don't wish this for myself._

The melodious strains of the violin reach his ears and his fingers twitch uncontrollably. Cheerful music only makes the whole atmosphere more dreary for him. The band was trying so hard, yet no one listens to them, not even someone who could associate himself with them most closely.

Sherlock looks down at his hand, feeling for his pulse. An impulse rushes through him, a flash, but he refuses to act on it. Here would only give rise to drama and not the outcome that he wanted. He'd have to go back to the privacy of his own suite.

"May I escort you back to the cabin, Sherlock?" Victor's hands are heavy on his shoulders. It isn't a request; it is a demand, something that Sherlock cheerfully complies to, "Yes, please."

Mycroft glances at his future brother-in-law and continues his conversation with Mr. Ismay.

"I'll be right back, gentlemen."

With that, he offers Sherlock his arm and together they exit the room and walk back to their cabin in tense silence. Once they reach their suite, the Alpha is about to kiss him but Sherlock places a finger on his lips, gently pushing him away.

"I'll wait for you tonight," he whispers, knowing that it is the only way he can shake him off from joining their lips together. The world believed that it was scandalous to leave an Unbonded Omega with any Alpha other than a family Alpha, so he expects that this remark will leave Victor a little shocked and that he will send him away to his room with a small rebuke that he shouldn't say such things. . .

But Victor only smiles triumphantly, thinking that Sherlock has finally given in to him, "I won't be late. Trust me."

_You'll be too late_ , he muses. He does not want the ghost of Victor's lips looming over his dead form like a terrible legacy.

Once safe inside the suite, Sherlock takes off the dinner jacket and stares at his reflection in the mirror. There's no denying that he's beautiful, exquisite. He hates his physical beauty, knowing that it is the biggest culprit behind the engagement. Had he been born ugly, he would have been abandoned, or given away to someone who saw beyond his physical form.

He grabs the shoe polish and scrubs it all over the mirror, blackening his reflection, trying to make it ugly and unwanted. When it does not seem satisfactory, he flings it at it, shattering the glass. He tears the restricting waistcoat and the shirt cuffs away from him, angry and pained. With an anguished cry, he tries to take off the 12 carat pear shaped engagement ring sitting on his finger like a burden to bear. It remains stuck to him adamantly, giving away after several minutes of painful extraction. He does not want to cut open his wrists and just die. He does not want to go through the marriage in which he has no say and experience a slow death. He has had enough pain. He wants it to be quick. He wants it to be over.

* * *

John is watching the beautiful night sky. He has never seen so many stars before. Industrial London does swallow its youth in its smoke, and John is very glad to get away from the dirt and squalor of the city.

Even in the wake of the heavenly diamonds, John is lost in the thoughts of the Omega he saw during the afternoon. His medical journal is lying carelessly on his chest as he smokes cheap cigarette, thinking about the brief moment when their eyes met, and the argument with his presumptuous Alpha.

He stirs a little when he hears quick footsteps rushing towards him. A tall slender figure passes by him and John sits up to look. It is the same Omega, those distinctive curls tell him so. His breath hitches in an occasional sob, which he suppresses, and he does not look like he is about to do something very worthwhile. Alpha protective instincts stir up inside John and he follows him, folding the medical journal and sticking it inside his pocket.

Sure enough, Sherlock slams against the base of the stern flagpole and clings there, panting. He stares out at the dark, the noise of the water breaking under Titanic's superstructure deafening his ears as he sees his only way out of there. John crouches behind the deck staircase watching him, while slowly approaching the taller man.

Sherlock's hands are shaking as he climbs over and turns his back to the railing, facing the blackness threatening to engulf him. The wind blows in his face, as if trying to push him back into the ship. He looks down at the ghostly, foamy trail left behind by the ship. He takes a last look at the grand majestic lady carting him off to America and leans forward, his arms straightening. He is momentarily hypnotised by the water churning beneath him. The need to escape is much greater than even caring that such an act could easily be the reason of his death. Mycroft thinks that somehow dragging Sherlock onto the ship would effectively keep him locked away in chains. Oh, Mycroft is wrong. So wrong.

John advances cautiously behind him, and extends his hand to him, ready to grab him if he fell, "I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

Sherlock whips his head around at the sound of his voice. He is scared of John playing good Samaritan. A slight sniff of the air informs him that the man in front of him is an Alpha. There's someone who cared, but it  doesn't matter to Sherlock now. He doesn't even know him. He would only do what society dictates for most Alphas; return a claimed Omega back to his partner. It is clear from his expression that he does not remember John.

"Stand back! Don't come any closer!" he cries defensively.

John notices the tear tracks on his cheeks in the faint glow from the stern running lights. He has a vague idea of the reason and tries to look less imposing. Of course, his clothes help his mission a lot.

"Come on. Just give me your hand and I'll pull you back over." He extends his free hand to him. "I can't. Being an Alpha, I can't let you do that."

"No. Stay where you are! I mean it! Or, I'll let go!"

John looks at him for a moment, thinking of the next best thing to say to him. His other hand holding the cigarette reaches his mouth. Sherlock looks back at him, as puts his hands up, and throws the cigarette away into the Atlantic waters. He advances the railing and deposits his hands in his pockets, looking sideways at the Omega, "No you won't."

Sherlock has stopped crying, and he frowns, "What do you mean no I won't?" He demands indignantly, "Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don't know me or what I want and do not want. You have no right over me!" He dumps all his anger, all his self-hatred misdirected at this stranger, someone who seemed to care, but someone who he dismisses as only an honourable, obligated poor Alpha looking for a tip probably, nothing more.

"Well, I see that you want to jump off the vessel."

"Yes, brilliant observation," Sherlock snaps, "Now be on your way and LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Look" John approaches him cautiously, trying a reassuring smile, "I don't claim to know whatever bad is going on with you, and that this may seem like the easiest way out, but don't do this, really. Good things happen to everyone."

"Take your sermon somewhere else, mister!" Sherlock has no idea why he is still talking to this absurd fellow.

"I won a ticket here on this grand ship, and I had no idea that _that_ was coming. So, you might miss out on your good moments too. Besides, I'm not gonna let you do this."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and almost sits over the ledge, "Do what?"

"I'm not going to let you jump," says he, remembering the Hippocratic Oath and his dream to be a doctor and save people, but who said that he was doing it for the sake of the oath anyway.

Sherlock has never felt so annoyed in his whole life, not even when his father had said that the scientist who prepared synthetic indigo should be burned alive. He tries a newer tactic, "Who says I'm jumping?"

John frowns, "You."

Sherlock replays their conversation. He suddenly remembers that he still has tear tracks on his face, "I said that your observation skills were appalling. I didn't confirm what you said," he reaches out to wipe his face on his sleeve, only to see John about to rush forward to catch hold of him should he fall.

John looks confused, "Then what are you doing here?"

"I'm hanging off the back of the ship here because I'm bored and frustrated and because a certain idiot isn't ready to leave me alone!" Sherlock feels the breeze across his face, seemingly transfixed by the darkness ahead of him, just like his life was now. He remembers the sickening feel of Victor's lips against his and the possibility to throw up rises by a million times. He feels the air around his neck constrict as he remembers the literal and the figurative shackles of marriage choke him again, and make him wish for death. If there's one thing that redeems him, it's that Alpha's voice.

"Doesn't look like you're bored," says John softly, yet audible over the din, whilst he tries not to feel insulted by the exclamation of 'idiot'. His teachers always told him that he was very intelligent, "Not from your face at least."

Sherlock instantly composes himself. His tactics weren't working, "Fine. I'll tell you the real reason. I'm searching for the propellers."

"Propellers?" John wonders what kind of mad Omega he had run into, "Alright, looks like you're done. Just come over, I'll give you a hand, don't want you slipping down."

Sherlock wonders if he has ever had a longer conversation with anyone else. He decides to give up and leans far over, and then sits on the railing, "What would it take me for you to go away?" says he wearily to this extraordinarily stubborn Alpha.

"There!" John brandishes his index finger at him, "You  **were**  thinking of jumping. But you're not gonna jump anyway so-"

Sherlock whips around, "Excuse me?"

John shrugs his shoulders, faking nonchalance, "Well, you would have done it already."

This statement earns him a scowl, "What?"

"You're not going to jump. Otherwise you would've ignored me and got on with it."

Sherlock looks a little affronted at that, "You're distracting me. Go away!" He huffs, but his anger is disappearing and is being replaced by annoyance at the stranger. He leans forward again, not really readying himself for the jump. As this point, if he has to jump, it would be only to annoy that stupid stranger Alpha.

"I can't. I'm too involved now. Being an Alpha, I can't go against my instincts. You must be knowing that. You let go, and I'm going to have to jump in there after you." He takes off his jacket and the journal out of his pocket, setting them down on the deck. He starts untying his left shoe, saying his words like they ought to be the most natural thing in the entire world.

"I don't care about your instincts," Sherlock snaps, "You're stupid! You can't stop me. You're not my family Alpha to be able to bend me to his orders."

John backs away a little, "You're right. I'm not your family Alpha. But I'm not doing this because I want you to listen to me. I would stop you even if I wasn't an Alpha. If you don't get off there, you'll leave me with no choice."

Now it's Sherlock's turn to look very surprised at that, "Don't be absurd! You'll be killed."

"I'm a good swimmer."

"The fall alone would kill you," he points out all that he has figured out mere seconds ago upon spotting the deserted fantail in spite of his anguish. He doesn't understand why a complete stranger would come jumping down after him, although his rational mind knows that he is fibbing.

John can see that the Omega's mind is slowly drifting away from suicide. "It would hurt. I'm not saying it wouldn't."

"Go away! You couldn't save your family and your dreams, how can you hope to save me?"

John freezes on the spot as he looks into Sherlock's grey, glassy orbs reflecting the lights. He does not know how the Omega knew about that one little raw spot in his heart. He decides to ignore it, dismissing it as sheer fluke, "I'm not at all worried about you jumping, because you're not going to. Unless you happen to slip and fall. . . To tell you the truth, I'm lot more concerned about the water being so cold down there."

Sherlock looks down. The reality factor of what he is doing dawns upon him.

"And you know how. . . cold it is?"

He knows that the water should be -2 degree centigrade at the most, but he asks. Just in case. He didn't mean it as a question, of course. Why would he? That Alpha was supposed to be an idiot.

"Freezing. Maybe a couple of degrees over." He takes off his right shoe as well, "You ever. . . you ever been to Snowdon?"

Sherlock is perplexed at the sudden change in topic, "Snowdon?"

"There are some of the coldest waters in Wales in there. Once my da took me for trout ice fishing in one of its lakes when I was seven. Ice fishing is where you-"

"I know what ice-fishing is!" he blurts out, clearly irritated by the obstacle. He wonders why the stranger Alpha is telling him stories of his childhood all of a sudden, instead of taking offence at his rude inferences about his personal life.

"Sorry! You just seem like, you know, kind of a indoor posh Omega who never has been out of . . . So anyway," he continues with his tale, seeing that the Omega does not like being called 'indoor', "I went through some thin ice and I'm telling you, water that cold. . . like right down there, it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can't breathe, you can't think. . . least not about anything but the pain. Your body freezes over, hypothermia sets in. Death doesn't come straightaway. It paralyses you first, starting with the cold and then the fear of not having control."

John knows that he had hit the right spot when Sherlock looks mildly horrified at the mention of 'absence of control'. He puts his hands back into his pockets, "Which is why I'm not looking forward to jumping in there after you." He takes off his jumper and hangs it on the anchor lying nearby, "Like I said, I don't have a choice. I guess I'm kind of hoping you'll come back over the rail and get me off the hook here." He looks at the Omega's frowning face hopefully.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock declares, leaning out for the third time.

John leans forward too, his voice low and a little amused. He knows that the Omega is not going to throw himself off anymore, "That might be true. But, with all due respect, sir, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship here." 

He slides one step closer, like moving up on a spooked horse. He extends his hand to him, "Come on. You don't want to do this. Give me your hand."

Sherlock glances at John's hand slowly approaching him. He unfastens one hand from the rail and reaches it around toward him. He reaches out to take it, firmly. He turns around, looking at his saviour. John's face is contorted into an expression of intense mental concentration. He has almost forgotten Sherlock's hurtful words when he looks up at the Omega's frightened and helpless face. He smiles gratefully at him, "I'm John Watson."

Sherlock is still apprehensive as he wipes his face in his white shirt. His voice quavers as he stammers out his full name, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

John chuckles softly, "That's quite a moniker. I'll have to get you to write that one down."

Sherlock gives out a choked laughter at his casual remark. He takes one more look at the dreadful abyss under him. Now that he had decided to live, the height is terrifying. He is overcome by vertigo as he shifts his footing, using John's shoulders as leverage to climb back up the railing. As he does that, he slips off the deck, plunging downwards as John grabs him by his hands with surprising strength. Sherlock is overcome by panic as he lets out a cry of help.

"Hold on!" John screams over the deafening waters, "I've got you!" He grips his hand and is jerked towards the rail. Sherlock grabs it, kicking and thrashing as he throws his leg on the deck edge and tries to pull himself up. That makes him slip again and he gives out an ear-piercing shriek of terror that echoes through the night.

"Help!"

"I've got you!" John shouts back, "I won't let go!"

John holds his hand with all his strength, not caring that if the Omega slipped again, he would pull him with himself down into the Atlantic. He concentrates on pulling him up and somehow gets him over the railing.

"Come on, that's right. You can do it."

They fall together in each other's arms onto the deck in a tangled heap, spinning in such a way that John winds up slightly on top of him. Sherlock is still holding on to him, paralysed by the terrifying ordeal he had been through, when the Quartermaster arrives.

"What's all this?"

He takes in Sherlock's dishevelled appearance, his scent that marked him as an Omega, and John's jacket and shoes lying nearby and instantly misunderstands the situation.

"You stand back! And don't move an inch!" He yells at John, who stands up defiantly, hands in pockets and feeling slightly angry at the false accusation.

"Fetch the master-at-arms!" Says he to the seamen.

* * *

John is being handcuffed by the burly master-at-arms, the closest thing to a cop on board, with the exception of Victor's valet of course, while Sherlock is covered in a blanket. Although the experience has left him quite shaken, it is obvious that he does not require the shock blanket. Every time he takes it off his shoulders, Victor's valet puts it back onto his shoulders with a stern look on his dour face. He refuses the brandy offered to him by Colonel Gracie. Victor is right in front of John, and extremely furious. It is obvious that the men have come running straight from the parlour as Victor's dinner jacket is buttoned up in all the wrong places and he is missing his pocket watch. Any ordinary man would placate his fiancée. But Victor, in an attempt to show off his Alpha dominance, towers over John's short figure. John looks him in the eye, never faltering even for a moment.

"This is completely unacceptable! What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancée?" He says 'fiancée' with such absurd sense of ownership that it makes John's eyes shift from Victor's to those of Sherlock's. He was quite right about him earlier.

"You look at me when I'm talking to you, you filth!" He grabs John by the collar, just as Sherlock lets out a choked whisper, "Victor!"

"What do you think you were doing?"

Sherlock rushes to seize Victor's hands and comes between the two of them, "Victor, Stop! It was an accident!"

He laughs incredulously, "An accident?"

"It was. . ." John is very confused at this point, and Victor is trying to comprehend the situation as Sherlock dons a perfectly fake goofy smile on his face, "I was leaning over and. . . I-slipped."

"You were leaning over?" Mycroft comes into the scene, trying his best to look surprised.

Sherlock looks at John, getting eye contact, "Ah, yes brother dear. I was, uh. . . not exactly leaning over. . . I was sitting on the railing."

An exaggerated sigh tells Sherlock that his brother isn't buying it, "And pray tell  _why_  were you doing so?"

Victor rolls his eyes and grits his teeth, very annoyed to be roused from his smoking routine just because his fiancée desired to sit on the railing. "I was so bored, and I felt like, needed the fresh air-"

"There's fresh air everywhere on the ship, sweetpea."

John frowns at the nickname. It's extremely disgusting. Sherlock looks like he thinks the same too.

"Well, you could sit there for yourself to. . ."

"No, thank you," Mycroft forces a small tight-lipped smile, "We can see the consequences of your. . .  _boredom_  for ourselves."

"I would have gone overboard but Mr. Watson here saved me. And almost went over himself." Sherlock adds hastily.

John is clearly amused at the elaborate explanation. He tries his best not to smile fondly at him.

"He was bored! On Titanic!" Victor announces to the crowd, "He wanted fresh air!" He's making fun of the idea very openly in front of all the Alphas there. Sherlock does not look away from John at all. He remains hooked to his saviour.

"Like I always say!" Colonel Archie remarks good-naturedly, hands behind his back, "Omegas should not be let out! They should be kept indoors, always!"

"Would have helped if you had got rid of your smoking habits, brother dear," Mycroft admonishes.

Sherlock emits a very low huff. John smiles inwardly at that. He has never heard of an Omega smoking. He always believed that they were quiet, docile things. His first meeting with one is quite the opposite. The master-at-arms seizes him for one last time for the night, "Is that the way of it?" He clearly isn't convinced.

Sherlock is begging him with his eyes not to say what really happened. He gulps and glances at Victor, "Yeah, that's pretty much it."

He looks at Sherlock a moment longer. Now they have a secret together.

The colonel looks very pleased, "Well! The boy's a hero then. Good for you son, well done!"

Victor and Mycroft look at him suspiciously but they don't say anything.

"So it's all's well and back to our brandy, eh?" He turns away leaving Victor to take Sherlock in his arms. He rubs his palms against his shoulders, trying to generate sufficient friction to warm him up, "Let's get you in. You're freezing." He starts to leave without a second thought for John as he's uncuffed. The colonel, however, clears his throat and continues in a low voice, "Perhaps. . . a little something for the boy?"

Victor nods and beckons to his valet, "Of course. I think a twenty should do it."

Sherlock is obviously discontented, "Oh, is that the going rate for saving your fiancée? Twenty measly pounds?"

"No, it's fine," John says weakly. Twenty pounds is a monstrous amount, but he isn't going to take the money thrown at him like he had earned it in a tip or something. It was his duty, nothing more. More so for an Omega like him. Then he remembers that no one is really listening to him. He's simply steerage swine.

Victor smirks at how casually he drops the title 'fiancée', "Ooh, Sherlock is displeased. Mmm. . . what to do?" He turns back to John. He appraises him condescendingly. . . a steerage ruffian, unwashed and ill-mannered, "I know just the thing," he smiles reassuringly, approaching John with the colonel and the valet at his heels.

"Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow evening seven o' clock, to regale our group with your heroic tale?"

The colonel gives a very slight smile, hidden under his bushy moustache. He certainly finds the situation very humorous.

John is still frowning at him as he looks him in the eye. He does not find Victor likeable at all. He isn't sure if he has any choice but then he takes one look at Sherlock and curiosity overbears self-preservation.

"Sure. Count me in."

Victor flashes a victorious smirk at him, "Good, it's settled then."

The smile disappears as soon as he turns away from John, "This should be amusing," he murmurs to Mycroft.

Sherlock watches the power dynamics between the two Alphas. Mycroft notes his half-worried, half-hopeful face before the look can disappear. With a final glance at John, he is escorted away by Victor. John watches the trio till they disappear around the corner, not knowing whether to congratulate himself or brood over the impending dinner the next evening.

* * *

As Sherlock undresses and pulls a midnight blue dressing gown over his shoulders, he looks at his reflection in the dressing mirror. The room does not look like it had been sabotaged the earlier evening at all. It is spotless and neat as ever. He casts an eye over his image. He does not want to spoil his looks anymore. Not at least before the dinner party the next evening. He smiles a little, feeling grateful that God has given him whatever little beauty everyone thinks he is in possession of. But his smile slowly fades away as he spots Victor watching his rituals fondly. He draws his chin up, waiting for him to start.

"I know you've been melancholy." His voice is unexpectedly tender. Sherlock has never heard him speak such words, "I don't pretend to know why."

He comes and makes him sit beside him on the stool in front of the dresser, his eyes taking in the youthful glow of Sherlock's skin. He traces a finger down his jaw, running it over his cheekbones with the air of a man admiring his possession, "I wished for tonight to come to an alternate end, but I don't want to rush you. I want you to take your time, Sherlock."

In spite of the words, he strokes Sherlock's chin tenderly and leans in to kiss his lips, as if a gesture to placate his Omega with the sense of security and "love" of his Alpha. Sherlock turns his neck away at the right moment, his breath stuck like a knife in his throat and Victor's lips touch his cheek. He swallows the rejection but he leans in to kiss his neck, the newly developed scent glands, sighing into his side softly.

"I understand you are upset. . . I thought I lost you for a moment there."

Sherlock remains impassive as ever. There's not even a shadow of truth in his words, he can hear it, feel it in his bones with as much certainty as he knows that his name is William Sherlock. He looks up to face his to-be husband, wanting to tell him that the concept of Bonding before marriage was too disgraceful a prospect for the society to accept, but he reminds himself that he was the one who had brought this upon himself. He looks up, not willing to look down like a submissive Omega.

"You know, this is one of the things I love about you," those words were almost thickly laced with mockery, "You never give up." There's now an unfathomable pity in his voice. He hates the sound of it. Victor takes his hand and replaces the engagement ring back onto his ring finger and kisses his hand. He seems himself to be disarmed by Sherlock's elegance and pristine beauty for a few moments. His emotion is, for the first time, unguarded. His voice is a little hoarse when he begins, but he regains it in a second anyway.

"I noticed that this was strewn across the floor when I was informed about the wreck in here," his words have become hard and they demand an explanation, "I don't understand. There's nothing I couldn't give you. There's nothing I'd deny you," he steps down, looking at their reflection in the mirror together, "If you would not deny me."

Sherlock turns to look at the man he was going to be forced to live with for the rest of his life. There's dread in his eyes, as opposed to the smug expression on Victor's face, "Open your heart to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock's hand instinctively reaches out towards his own heart hammering slowly in the cavity of his chest, devoid of vitality and joy, as if trying to shield it from Victor. If he really loved him as much as other people made it out to be, he wouldn't have had to ask for his heart, only to keep it locked away in a stronghold box like a jewel. His heart wasn't a stone which could be measured in carats, it was a real, living entity.

Unable to maintain eye-contact anymore , Sherlock looks away towards the mirror and at the ring sitting on his finger. He rises from his place. "Good night, Victor," he drawls, before retreating back to his room, thinking about how it felt to be in John Watson's strong, protective arms. He remembers those blue eyes and they somehow suddenly seem to fill his universe.


	3. A Walk and A Little Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who aren't familiar with Omegaverse (majorly, my version of Omegaverse and hence, my versions of the four genders and their interactions):
> 
> Alphas-have a dominant streak in them, physically strong, think that they are the kings, arrogant and imposing as hell and can reproduce with Omegas or females
> 
> Omegas- generally very attractive and docile little creatures, in other words, considered to be the exact opposite of what Alphas are; can reproduce only with Alphas
> 
> Betas-intelligent in a worldly sense; can reproduce only with females
> 
> Females don't have any such sub-gender.
> 
> I'm not sure whether it's the similar in other fics, I found this one to be the best for my work.
> 
> I hope this clears it a bit and if you have any other questions, drop me a comment, and I'll reply to it, either as a comment or in a chapter note if it is a general thing.

Friday, April 12th, 1912

The third class general room is the social epicentre of steerage life. It is stark by comparison to the opulence of first class, but is a loud, boisterous place. There are mothers with babies, kids running between the benches yelling in several languages and being scolded in several more. There are old women yelling, men playing chess, girls doing needlepoint and reading dime novels. There is even an upright piano and Mike is noodling around it.

Three boys, shrieking and shouting, are scrambling around chasing a rat under the benches, trying to whomp it with a shoe and causing general havoc. John is playing doctor-doctor with that same little girl, Cora, teaching her how to check for her pulse and how to give first-aid help to someone, using her father as a test subject. He watches her wrap imaginary bandages around her father's arm while winking at Greg, who is struggling to get a conversation going with an attractive but painfully shy girl.

"What's your name then?"

"M—Molly," she tries to stammer out, "Hooper. I—"

Her eye is caught by something. Greg looks, does a take. . . and John, curious, follows their gaze to see. . .

Sherlock, coming toward them. The activity in the room stops. . . a hush falls as the distinctive sweet pungent odour of an Omega's brow reaches the Alpha men scattered across the room amidst all the stink of sweat and the general untidiness. Even if he wears a long tweed coat and a scarf around his neck to mask the smell and to hide his identity, the scent is recognizable. An Omega is very rare, something you don't get to set your eyes upon every day. Many die before they've seen one. Most of the working labour class are comprised of Alphas, due to the demand of manual labour, and women. Never an Omega or Beta. Betas, being practical and intelligent, are mostly middle class: engineers, doctors, etc. Omegas are treasured possessions of the royalty, meant to be guarded with jealousy from the rest of world like they were jewels, not to be left astray in the third class general room.

But, Omega or not, this young man is very mismatched with his surroundings.

Sherlock suddenly feels self-conscious as the steerage passengers stare openly at this regal prince, some with resentment, others with awe. This is such a bad idea. He hates the way Alphas look at him, the way their women partners strengthen their grip on their Alphas when he passes them by so that they don't forget them; but the gazes that meet him aren't lustful, not in the slightest. They are more of awe, as if Sherlock is a trained lion in the circus. Of course, the third class men have a lot to think of than their biology and wasting their energies on Mating. He relaxes when he spots John and gives him a polite little smile, walking straight to him. He rises to meet him, sharing the same awed look that all Alphas do. Sherlock suppresses the little smile that automatically came to him upon seeing John's face. He wasn't expecting him, more so in such a grandiose manner. Well, he is always full of surprises.

"Good morning, Mr. Watson."

Mike and Greg are floored. It's like the slipper fitting Cinderella.

"Hello again," John clears his throat, and grins a little, "William Sherlock Scott. . ."

Another smile touches his lips. "Just Sherlock. . . Could I speak to you in private, perhaps?"

John looks confused, maybe at his request or perhaps at the extremely civility of his speech which is a complete departure from the display of his manner the previous evening, being a conversation usually punctuated by the term 'idiot'.

"S-sorry, what?"

Sherlock tries not to frown. Is this the same Alpha? He must be. There aren't a lot, in fact, there isn't anyone in the third class except for John Watson who knows his full name. But John looks like he has disowned or forgotten him already. Sherlock feels a little pang of panic and insecurity at that. He had got up early. He had planned this little tryst, all by himself, unchaperoned, knowing that if he met an Alpha on the way who was lust-crazed enough even to take an Omega out of Estrus, or Heat in layman's words, he'd lose all sense of himself, all sense of self-worth and dignity. John Watson can't disown him. He gave up the idea of dying for him, because he saw goodness and came to believe that there was still some left in the world. That there was still someone who would care if he fell down. That there was still someone who cared about him more than about the ship, an inanimate object.

He can't disown him.

"I—you. . . _helped_ me yesterday, don't you rem—?"

"No, I—I do," John avoids looking at him, his arms tucked behind his back as he stands up straight, an unconscious gesture for an Alpha presenting himself as a prospective mate. Sherlock pretends that he didn't notice it. "I just didn't—expect you here."

"Oh, yes," Sherlock casts a surreptitious glance at room. His gaze rests on a particularly sweating, able-bodied Alpha whose muscles ripple through the thin material of his worker-class clothes. The scent of him reaches him. Strong, attractive, his Biology notes, would be able to satisfy him during Estrus. The woman beside the Alpha strengthens her grip on him and looks mildly furious as the Alpha's focus is distracted from the chess game to Sherlock. Sherlock shakes his head inwardly to clear such ridiculous thoughts. If he weren't an Omega, he wouldn't have thought such things.

"Do you. . . mind?" He asks. An Omega never asks Alpha any question, except when his rational thinking is dissolved by the pheromones released during Estrus and he's begging for the Alpha's knot.

"Uh, no," he shakes his head, glancing around furtively, "Of course not. After you."

He motions him ahead and follows. John glances over his shoulder at Greg and Mike, shrugs at them with one eyebrow raised, as he walks out with Sherlock, leaving behind a stunned pin-drop silence.

As they lead themselves out in the deck, Sherlock's heart is pumping furiously. He hasn't told about this little rendezvous to anyone, not even Mycroft. He knows that he shouldn't be doing this, roaming around the ship unchaperoned by a family Alpha, not when Alphas were all greedy, hungry wolves trying to take him to bed at the first opportunity. It's just fortunate that the Estrus hasn't begun in him yet. But, as he tells himself fervently, he needs to thank Mr. Watson for his intervention the previous night.

And it does feel good to disobey. He has never disobeyed, not the direct orders of an Alpha, no matter how repugnant. His biology never lets him disobey, despite his wishes.

He isn't here to disobey. He's here for business.

And Mr. Watson isn't the typical Alpha. He is incredibly respectful of his boundaries, like he was the other night.

And maybe that is the reason he is here.

He is here for "business", Sherlock reminds himself.

He is also overthinking his  _business_ , he tells himself.

It's like he has felt the sun for the first time in many years as he walks beside John, their hands at quite a distance away from each other. John is dressed in the same clothes as previous night, while Sherlock has obviously changed into a grey two-piece, having shed the black tweed overcoat which rests peacefully in his arm. John has his medical journal in his hand as the two of them walk awkwardly, their discomfort arising due to different reasons. John cannot think of a single thing to say. He does not quite believe that he's walking with an Omega and that too in the first class area of the ship.

They pass people reading and talking in steamer chairs, some of whom glance curiously at the incompatible couple. He feels out of place in his rough clothes. Seeing as being an Alpha required him to start the conversation (courting), he opens his mouth. "So. . . you've got a name. . . William, and yet you call yourself Sherlock."

He shrugs, "Don't blame me. My parents have always had a dreadful tradition of naming us horribly. . . I prefer Sherlock."

"Evidently," John nods. The first topic of conversation is closed. It's more than five minutes after Sherlock speaks again.

"John H. Watson."

He turns to see Sherlock staring intently at the label on the journal. He doesn't know why Sherlock strode into the general room to drag him away so that they could only discuss each other's names "Yes."

"Henry?"

John frowns and doesn't say anything. Sherlock sees the pucker of his lips, and is now determined to guess the name, "Higgins? Humphrey? Something that sounds funny, isn't it?"

John regards him with somewhat close to exasperation at his efforts. He drops his voice so that no one can hear, "Hamish."

Sherlock's hands fold behind his back. He emits a small humming sound. Another topic closed. Now the atmosphere is getting really awkward.

"Weather is good, isn't it?" It's the best shot John has at conversation.

"Yes, it's like I've never been out in sun."

"Well, you clearly haven't. Not even a speck of tan. . . don't they make you wear all those absurd hats to cover yourself? You know, being an Omega and such, wanting to make you look like a china doll?"

There's at least someone who's against the ceremony of wearing hats. Sherlock smiles lopsidedly, perhaps at the idea, or at the way John draws a sharp breath after having gone on non-stop about it.

"That's true, but I find the practice of wearing hats very silly."

John nods stiffly, suddenly remembers something from the previous night, "You. . . knew about my family."

Sherlock hums. Something about Sherlock's manner makes it clear that it wasn't a simple fluke.

"How? Did they work under you, presuming that you," John indicates at a general direction of him, "or your family own some factory or whatever—"

"Nothing of that sort. I simply saw."

John looks down at himself and his Bohemian attire, "This is all you saw. How could you possibly have. . .?"

"Why not? When I see a young Alpha with his hair a little too long for the standards of the times, and his clothes rumpled from sleeping in them and when he's too self-possessed and sure-footed for 20, it is no great feat to infer that he must have been on his own for quite some time."

John looks down at himself again, his Alpha instincts taking over him and he tries to contradict him, "I could have run away from home."

Sherlock smirks, "Unlikely. You would not have carried that ridiculous middle name about with you," he points at the journal, "seeing as you were so ashamed to admit it. Anyway, no one keeps their middle name after they have run away. They want to sever their ties with their family."

John looks faux offended, "It's not ridiculous, it's my father's name. . .. And yours is worse," he points out defensively, "And this could have been an old book, from before I supposedly ran away."

"Mine is worse indeed. I don't disagree. But you dropped your voice almost an octave down when you told me that it was 'Hamish'," there's a small self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"As for the book, it may look old but the year is clearly printed, 1909. I said that you were on your own for quite some time, longer than 3 years obviously, on the verge of 5 maybe, so you bought it after your parents died—" Sherlock stops, seeing as this isn't a conversation that John might be comfortable with. John looks away at a distance just as Sherlock comes out with another much more promising topic of chat.

"Tell me more about yourself, Mr. Watson. Other than ice fishing, of course."

John laughs a little, "Yeah, that was really stupid of me! I should have got straight to the point."

Sherlock smiles too, "Yes, indeed."

"Well, like you said, I've been on my own since I was 15. My folks died in a fire. Also I had no brothers or sisters or close kin in that part of country. So I lit on out of there, got to London and I haven't been back since. You can just call me a tumbleweed blowing in the wind."

Sherlock looks something that resembles 'impressed', "You've travelled a lot, I can see."

"Yes, that. Are you. . . like a mind reader or something?" Sherlock scoffs at that, but John overrides him, "Yeah, you gave me some theory, most of which went right over my head before, but it's clear as crystal now," he chuckles softly.

Sherlock leans against the railing, relaxing in a very un-Omega-like fashion. It's clear that he's opening up to this stranger who saved his life the previous night. He observes John for a disconcerting couple of minutes and then speaks, "I'm not a mind reader. Want me to prove it, yes?"

John looks around, "Not here. You might know someone. Let's go to the third class—"

"Subjects here would be more difficult. All their history concealed under layers of clothing and voluminous amounts of cosmetics."

Sherlock has a point. But John looks up at him testily and smirks challengingly, "Yes, but I'm not letting you cheat. We'll do one here and one there. And we'll see how good you are."

He accepts the contest, "You choose. I'll tell you everything about them."

"Alright, round one," he casts his gaze around and spots a woman dressed in pink and a matching pink hat, with her back to them, on Colonel Moran's arm. He subtly points at her, "I dare you. Give it your best shot."

Sherlock's smirk fades as he focuses his glare on the woman, gathering up all his limited knowledge to use on his deductions of her. He doesn't know her so he's willing to give it a try. John is clever enough to give him a more difficult class of problem. Deducing from a man is much easier than a woman. More so, a woman with her back towards them.

"Just so you know, I know the man and I know that he's already married. By the looks of it, she must be his mistress—"

John visibly deflates, "You know her. Great—"

"I didn't say that," Sherlock interrupts quickly, "Woman's cheating on her husband too. There's a ring or her finger. Do you see that?"

John nods. So far clear.

"Victim of domestic abuse. This one's obvious. Means that husband's on board too."

Not to John as Sherlock's deductions take a huge leap. He does not see any bruises or cuts. "I don't see any marks."

"It's not the presence of marks. It's the absence of it. There's an excessive amount of talc on some very suggestive areas of her hands and neck. She's clearly trying to mask them with makeup. It's also unlikely that the husband knows about her affair otherwise she would not be roaming around with the colonel during daytime."

"Alright. What else?"

"Means that the husband is going into recession, very recently."

John frowns, "How do you mean?"

"You remember the man who was draping the blanket across my shoulders yesterday? He's valet to my fianc—the man who was trying to strangle you," Sherlock corrects himself hastily. "All the upper class ones have their manservant or valet spying on their wives or Omegas. She does not have anyone trailing behind her. But her clothes are quite fine, you see. That, coupled by the domestic abuse due to moral regression clearly signals to the fact that they are emigrating to America for a better future."

John is mesmerised by Sherlock's ability to read people. The reasoning is so accurate that he cannot doubt his conclusions, "Amazing! How do you do it?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, trying his best not to look too pleased, "I told you. I simply observe."

"Just observe? You were talking to me the whole time."

Sherlock's eyes narrow as he comes to a rest near the gymnasium door. He casts a glance around for five seconds, and starts off, "The boy who just passed us has a twin brother on this ship. The man leaning against the railing is an ex-army man, possibly sergeant, widower, no children. One of your mates, the cherub one, wanders all around Europe, gets to see his family only twice a year. He had an unhappy love-affair the last time he had been on a ship. Although having travelled a lot, I could see that he came from Glasgow. The other, flirtatious one is a Londoner, although he's originally from somewhere in the mining districts in the States."

John blinks several times. His mouth is open in honest appreciation, "Wow! You know more about them than I do."

Sherlock gives him an endearing half-smile at the thought, "Course I do. I am Sherlock Holmes. I notice everything."

"Well, I'll just have to do a better job of distracting you from now on!"

"No chance," Sherlock blows out a breath, "Now the second half. Round two."

They turn around and start for the other end of the ship, "Well, Sherlock, we've walked about a mile around the boat deck, chewed over our names and how great the weather is and how I grew up, and scandalous secrets of some woman. . . but I reckon that's not why you came to talk to me, is it? Or did you just want a friendly chat?"

Sherlock stops and looks down, trying to form the words in his mouth. His face grows serious, "Mr. Watson, I—"

"John," he smiles up at him kindly and reassuringly, the sort that said 'trust me'.

"John. . ." Sherlock looks down when he realises that he has been looking into his blue eyes for more than it was appropriate, "I want to thank you for what you did. Not just for pulling me back, but also for your discretion and, it was very wise, very heroic. . . considering the ordeal you had to go through after that."

"You're welcome." John smiles kindly, content with listening to what Sherlock has to say. He has seen sadness in his face, and he wishes for him to open up about it, "Look, I don't want to be nosy about it, but I think that's not all."

His face is so open and honest and sincere. It is unlike anyone he has ever known. He is completely apart from his world, a drifter, an ordinary man with a forgettable face. Ordinary yet incomprehensible. Sherlock knows only bits about this wanderer who aspires to be a doctor, small bits that his clever deductions can tell him. He knows, but he does not understand. And the thought makes him mad. Why would Mr. Watson—John care if he lived or died? He barely knew him. He expected no reward when he had rescued him. He had even refused the twenty that Victor had reluctantly offered him.

"Well, I—"

Sherlock decides to give in to all the desperation inside him.

"I don't. . . it wasn't just one thing. It was them, it was their whole world. And I was trapped in it, like an insect in amber," a wave of anger washes over him, something similar to what he had felt yesterday, and John subconsciously places himself so that he is between Sherlock and the railing, "It's not my fault that I am an Omega. I would give in anything just to stop. . . being an. . ."

He sucks in a painful breath and glances at John. He knows such an outburst it unbecoming of him, but John's face in non-judgmental, and that's all he cares about right now.

"I—I just had to get away. . . just run and run and run. . . and then I was at the back rail and there was no more ship. . . even the Titanic wasn't big enough! Not enough to get away from them. Jumping seemed like the only getaway, apart from dying. I was so furious. I'll show them. They'll be sorry!"

"Uh huh," John nods, "They'll be sorry. 'Cause you'll be dead. Nice way to make a point."

"Can't really judge that now," Sherlock has his hold over himself again, "You stopped me from doing that."

"Anyway," John continues, "That penguin last night. . . he said he was your fiancé. Is he one of them?"

Despite himself, Sherlock doesn't smile at Victor being compared to a "penguin".

"He is them. 500 invitations have gone out. All of Philadelphia society will be there. And all the while. . . I wanted to go out in the world and do the things a _normal Omega_ hasn't ever done. . . like Snow White or. . . or Rapunzel, they escaped, didn't they? Why can't I?"

He knows he sounds ridiculous, but then, he is angry and desperate after all, more so because he couldn't _show_ emotion, had to keep it in. "Even go to university if that was all I could, not marry and sit at home. "

He shows John the engagement ring sitting heavily on his finger, weighing him down.

"Holy moly! I've never seen an uglier thing before!"

They laugh together, despite themselves. A passing steward scowls at John, who is clearly not a first class passenger, but Sherlock just glares at him away.

John drops all the cheerfulness upon hearing how serious the situation was for him.

"So you feel like you're stuck on a train you can't get off because you're marrying this bloke."

Sherlock nods, the corner of his lip curving downwards.

"Then don't marry him."

Sherlock is caught off-guard. He looks at John as if he has just uttered the unthinkable. "Pardon me?"

"Well, if you don't want to marry him, that is," John says, trying to look wise. "If you feel like you won't be free if you married him, then don't."

"Excuse me? I don't think it is appropriate at all for you, as an Alpha," he glances John from top to bottom, "to discuss my impending matrimony and my affections towards my fiancé without any restraint."

"I'm just saying," John tries more carefully, "Do you at least love him?"

He is at a loss of words. He knows that he isn't fond of Victor, but he also knows that there's no other way out. He tried to escape once and only Heaven knew what had happened afterwards.

"You're being very discourteous. You shouldn't be asking me, in fact anybody, such a forward question!"

John frowns and then smirks. There's nothing wrong with the query, "Says the person who calls everyone an idiot. It's a simple enough question, don't be all long-winded about it. Do you love the bloke or not?"

Sherlock looks at him incredulously and lets out a strained humourless laugh, as if he cannot believe this man, "This is not a suitable conversation. My _love life_ ," he says that as distastefully as a gossiping woman utters 'tramp', "is something that is not pertinent to be discussed at all!"

Meanwhile, John is amused as well, "Why can't you just answer the question?"

"This is absurd! You don't know me, and I don't know you and we're not having this conversation at all! You are rude and uncouth and presumptuous, and I am leaving now!" At this point, John is almost ready to burst out laughing as Sherlock extends his hand, "John. . . Mr. Watson," he takes it and they shake hands for quite a time, the tingling sensation of _touching_ an Omega extremely pleasant, "It's been a pleasure. I sought you out to thank you and now I  _have_  thanked you." John's hands are rough and strong as he grips Sherlock's larger palm.

"And you've insulted me." He says it like it is the biggest honour anyone has ever bestowed upon him.

"Well, you deserved it." Sherlock's adamant nature comes out naturally.

They're still shaking hands. John looks down at the comical way in which such a serious situation was coming to an end, "I thought you were going to go for Round Two of your "deductions"."

"As it turns out, you have diverted my thoughts away from that direction. You fault!"

"Right," John is shaking with silent laughter now, "I thought you were also leaving."

"Oh, I am!"

"And also staying for Round Two of your deductions!" John reminds him, a goofy smile plastered on his lips.

Sherlock looks utterly beaten, "You're insufferable!"

"Right," John laughs at Sherlock's retreating figure.

Suddenly, remembering something, he storms back to John, "Wait, I don't have to leave! This is my part of the ship. You leave!"

He laughs out loud, "Whoa! Well, well, well. Now who's being rude?" And Sherlock is taken aback again.

"Shut up and get to the second round!"

* * *

Sherlock does not feel out of place anymore as the third class approaches for the umpteenth time. John is good company, and he goes to all lengths to make Sherlock laugh. It's afternoon, he has spent only half-a-day with John, and he already feels like he has never been happier in his whole life. They skip lunch as they sit in the shade on a deck chair, deducing all people that pass through there and laughing at all the shocking secrets that Sherlock collects from them. Surprisingly, Victor's valet hasn't come to search for him yet. It's almost two o'clock, and Sherlock has lost count of how many times they have passed the various landmarks: the lifeboats, the edge of the A-deck promenade, large brass signs that indicate the various rooms. The decks are bursting with life, children are playing in whatever limited area they can make the best use of, and people have almost stopped glaring at them.

John is of above-average intelligence and he also tries his hand at deduction, although when he sees the way Sherlock's face lights up when he corrects him and calls him an idiot, John deliberately announces staggeringly wrong results that are simply not possible just to see him roll his eyes very uncharacteristically and let out a huff of annoyance, endearing as it is.

"You're an idiot, John!" He declares pompously, "That's ridiculous! Yes, that man is an established medical man, but he also is a country man!"

"How?"

"Look at that stick! It's only two years old; the date is on the stick, but the base is very much worn out. Means he does a lot of walking! And . . ."

John loves the bright look on Sherlock face when he explains his deductions. It's like this is the first time he has got some chance to do the talking. He's so fast that John finds it very hard to keep up with him, and he has to ask him to repeat himself several times. Sherlock looks a little annoyed when he's asked to repeat himself, but it's worth the tiny bit of smile that appears on his face.

"That other git yesterday, the one with the ginger hair, who's he?" He suddenly asks.

"My brother, Mycroft," Sherlock says, looking into the distance and watching wistfully the seagulls in their flight.

"Your brother? Didn't look like one."

Sherlock frowns, "He has the same eyes as me."

"Yeah, but you're so gor—" John stops abruptly when it hits him what he's going to say to him. Two tiny specks of colour bloom on Sherlock's cheeks, and John's heart starts beating a hundred miles a minute. Looking for another topic, any other topic, he indicates the journal, tucked in his pocket, John's only possession except for his clothes and his kit bag.

"Why do you carry this book like a prop around with you all day?"

John looks down, "Oh, this? 'Tis my journal. I read it whenever I get free time."

"May I?"

The question is rhetorical because Sherlock has already grabbed the journal. He sits on a deck chair and opens the book. It is an anatomy journal full of meticulous notes made by John in neat minuscule handwriting, cramming as much as he can into the available space.

"You wanted to be a doctor?"

"Still want to be," he shrugs. "I have no money. That's why I moved to London in the first place. Heard that there would be lot of work in there. Studying in London is  expensive as hell, pardon my French, so I'm moving to America. . . land of opportunities, they say."

Sherlock wishes he could just. . . go for anything in life like John could. Just set for sail until he got to the horizon and then sail some more. "It's fine, you won't be imprisoned for eternity for saying 'hell' in front of an Omega."

John smirks. Sherlock blinks, avoids his eyes.

"And . . . I knew you were some sort of medical figure." Sherlock did not. He was internally cursing himself to have overlooked such a basic and suggestive fact.

John quirks his eyebrow at that, "How?"

"All that hypothermia talk. But. . . your hands suggest that you've done a lot of pencil work and all this is in pen."

John's cheeks flush a little as he looks at the graphite accumulated in his nails, "Yeah, you really don't want to know that."

"Go on, indulge me."

"Told you, you really don't want to know that," John tugs at the journal, but Sherlock doesn't give away without a struggle. Some loose sheets fall out and are taken by the wind. John scrambles after them. . . catching some, but the rest are gone, over the rail. Sherlock feels a little guilty when he sees that those are crude sketches, his creations.

Not crude. They're lively, humane, each one an expressive little bit of humanity: an old woman's hands, a sleeping man, two puppy dogs playing and running after each other. The faces are luminous and alive. It is nothing like Sherlock has ever seen. It is  _real_ , like a photograph coming to life, like the way John  _sees_  the model as, not an outlandish fantasy of his mind.

It is real, so unlike Sherlock's own life, which is brittle glass waiting to be shattered.

"So. . . you're an artist as well?" He hadn't seen that coming. John did not seem like the artistic kind, or simply not the artistic kind that Sherlock has ever come across.

John shrugs his shoulders, "Not really. I started by practising these anatomy diagrams, in case I ever got into some university. My mate Mike told me that I could earn much more by doing sketches instead. I just seem to spew 'em out. Besides, they're not worth a damn anyway."

For emphasis he throws away the ones he caught. They sail off. Sherlock laughs, "You're deranged!"

"Merci, Monsieur Holmes!" He gives him a little bow. Sherlock continues until he comes across. . .

"Well, well. . ."

He has come upon a series of nudes stuffed at the back of the book. Sherlock is transfixed by the languid beauty he has created. His nudes are soulful, real, with expressive hands and eyes. They feel more like portraits than studies of the human form. . . almost uncomfortably intimate. He tries hard not to flush with heated colour, covering the sketches as some strollers pass by.

John purses his lips and looks away, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye apprehensively as he goes through every single of them. He swallows, trying to be very adult, "And. . . these were. . . drawn from life?"

John simply nods, not knowing what else to do other than smile. "Something wrong?" He asks when he sees the frown on his face.

"Nothing. . . this woman. . . you liked her."

John looks down, not saying anything.

"She's different from others," Sherlock carries on, "and this is only once you've drawn her."

He studies this one drawing in particular, the girl posed half in sunlight, half in shadow. She is looking out of the frame, not at the admirer unlike most of the figures. Her face is half-hidden in darkness, with bolder tones than usually what John had done with the rest. It's like he has gone to extraordinary lengths to let whoever sees the drawing discern that he knew this woman, and that she was distinguished, just as bold as the pencil strokes, just as alluring and mysterious as the light falling on her depicts her to be. She comes out loud and alive through his immortalization of her on paper. Her nudity is an unimportant thing when compared to how fantastically she's portrayed. Sherlock has never been a very big aficionado of art and fantasy. However, this one picture makes him change his mind.

He steals a glance at his face. He knows he's thinking the right thing. But he doesn't want to prod further. Not if it is in the past.

"Yeah, she's. . . I met her when I was travelling to London. Sarah. This is the only picture I have of her."

"Oh." A very exaggerated oh. He's never the one to ask people about their lives, and John isn't a person who says until he has been asked.

"Hmm. . . I did say that you travelled a lot."

"And you were very right like always."

"You've been to Wales, Ireland, even France and Italy. You do get around for a po—well, p—"

John grins, rather unabashed, "Go on, a poor bloke, you can say it."

"No, you look for riches in the wrong place, John. I'd rather be poor but free than rich and chained."

"I don't do that," John says, eyeing Sherlock furtively, "I don't look in the wrong place at all."

Sherlock's heart quickens at the blatantly obvious insinuation as he clears his throat, "Well, you have a gift, John. You see people."

"Oh yes," John smiles, "says the man who can tell an ex-soldier apart from a policeman—"

"I _observe_ ," Sherlock insists. "You _see_ people."

"I see you."

Sherlock closes the book at John's words and raises his eyebrows, unconsciously presenting as an Omega wanting to be courted. "And?"

"You wouldn't have jumped."

Sherlock's smile fades. John looks down, and gazes at him sideways, "If I haven't offended you already, would you care to join me for another walk?"

Sherlock ignores it. Ignores that it is the unmistakeable invitation to be courted; the first step to courtship by an Alpha. "It takes a _hell_ lot," he almost gasps unconsciously upon even uttering 'hell' and John smirks at that, "to offend me."

Sherlock and John begin strolling aft, past people lounging on deck chairs in the slanting sunset light. Stewards scurry to serve tea or hot cocoa. John scurries around for topics frantically, yanking his hand away when he feels Sherlock's feverish one touching his.

"You know," says Sherlock, "I've always dreamt of running away and becoming a pirate."

John guffaws, "Pirate? Won't that be too demeaning for His Highness Big-Brother Holmes?"

"Ugh. Who cares about what he thinks? Once I had this dream that I was plundering Victor's goldmines and just spreading the wealth around!"

"I'm telling you! You wouldn't last two days. There's no hot water, and hardly ever any caviar."

His expression turns angry in a flash, " Listen, buster. . . I hate caviar! And if you're trying to tell me that I'm just being childish and immature, then you're just wasting your breath."

John looks down, feeling very guilty, "They tell you that?"

Sherlock sighs. "You know, everybody expects me to be this delicate docile thing which I'm not. I'm as strong and as sturdy as a horse! This mind of mine, it's made for work, not for sitting at home and thinking household!"

Right on cue, a steward approaches them, "Care for something, sir? Perhaps some tea or some bourbon?"

Sherlock's eyes flash dangerously as he gives him a tight-lipped smile, "I'd like some nightshade and boiling oil to drown you in!!!"

John starts laughing hard again, as the steward scuttles away, looking very scared at the angry outburst, "Well, if you'd like to, you and I can plunder the Titanic the next time it sets sail. Just you know, all the caviar in the ocean, back to where it came from!"

Some passer-bys look at them, very horrified at the idea as Sherlock's eyes gleam with excitement, "Sounds like you have a plan, Mr. Wandering John."

"No, not plan! We'll do it! We'll don eye patches, hooks and pirate clothes. . . well, you're an expert at that!"

"Real pirates don't do that, John!" Sherlock states in a scholarly tone, "They drink and loot and eat and drink again!"

"Seriously? You? Drink?"

Sherlock shoots him a challenging look, "What? You think an Omega can't drink?"

Omegas can't actually, but John doesn't mention that because it' already known knowledge. "Well, I've heard that you smoke. I suppose drinking shouldn't come across as surprising."

"Apart from that. . . I've done some preparatory work."

John's eyes widen in genuine surprise, "And that is?"

Sherlock gives him a small wink and casts a stealthy glance around, "Come with me."

Painted with orange light, John and Sherlock lean on the A-deck rail aft, shoulder to shoulder. The ship's lights come on. It is a magical moment. . . simply perfect.

Or it would have been if there had been no mischief on Sherlock's mind.

"Watch closely."

John does not know what Sherlock is up to. As soon as he sees him pick pocketing his neighbour, he grabs his hand away, causing the man to look at what had happened behind. He drags the fighting Omega away from there, although, being taller, Sherlock has a significant advantage.

"You could have got me caught!" His cry is almost shrill.

"Sherlock, what  _if_  you get caught—?"

"That's a pretty big  _if_ because I clearly won't," says he confidently. Then, upon remembering John's moral side, he adds, "And I wasn't taking his money! Why would I, of all people, need it?"

John frowns, "Then?"

"I was taking it from his pocket and putting it back! Now, watch."

In the twinkle of an eye, the man's wallet was in Sherlock's hands. "Ta da!"

John could have described himself as thoroughly impressed had it not been such a bad thing, "Christ, you're such a troublemaker! Where did you learn that?"

He slipped it back into the man's pocket deftly, "I pick-pocket my brother when he annoys me. Alright, your turn."

"Oh no, no!" John raises his hands, quite alarmed, "I'm not doing anything like that."

"Come on, John! I'll save your neck if you get caught."

John shakes his head, "Sherlock, do you want me to attend the dinner party tonight or spend the evening in the company of the master-at-arms?"

Sherlock's smile disappears from his face. He wants him to. John would be wonderful company amongst all the mindless banter. But he does not want to expose him to the heartless people, that is, if they even deserved to be called people. He knows that Victor has called John only to embarrass him, nothing more. And Mycroft, he could always be counted upon.

But all that doesn't mean that Sherlock isn't going to give up. By Jove, he's going to teach John Watson how to pick-pocket, just for the fun of it!

"One more, and then you'll have to do it!"

"Oh," John shoots him a smirk, "why should I listen to you?" Sherlock counters back with a smile that clearly says, 'do I need to explain that to you?'.

He reaches for the poor venerable gentleman for the third time and draws out the wallet again, never failing to bring about that impressed look on John's face. He bows like he has performed some great stunt.

"And that's the way I do it!" He replaces it back into the gentleman's trousers as John visibly blanches. He sees his expression and turns.

Mycroft, Andrea, the Duke and the Duchess of Cheshire were watching them closely. Sherlock becomes instantly composed. There is accusation in Mycroft's eyes—saying clearly— _what are you doing with an Unbonded Alpha and that too unchaperoned? And moreover with that vagabond?_

"Brother! Surely you remember Joh—Mr. Watson from yesterday?"

Mycroft fixes John under his uncomfortable glare. His eyes are cold as ice, and yet somehow they seem to emit the fury at his brother's pastime, like John were in any way responsible for it. His head turns to look at Sherlock, demanding an explanation for his actions and as to what Joh—Mr. Watson was doing roaming around with him without an Alpha to escort him.

Before the others can throw more appalled looks in their direction, Sherlock starts with his own, a very John-friendly version of the previous day's tale. Everybody, including Andrea, were very gracious and curious about the man who had saved Victor's fiancée's life. But Mycroft, he looks at him like he was an insect. A dangerous insect which must be squashed immediately. John smiles at everyone, while the Duchess openly praises him, but his expression falters when he sees Mycroft's artificially blank face. He gives him a curt nod and forces his eyes towards the Duchess instead. They all stifle their startled gasps as a bugler sounds the meal call "The Roast Beef of Old England" right behind them like a cavalry charge.

"That's the dinner. Let's go, brother dear," Sherlock is speaking extremely fast as he takes Mycroft's arm.

They walk themselves out of there before Sherlock turns back to mouth his parting words to John over his shoulder, "See you at dinner."

"Sherlock, look at you. . . out in the sun with no hat. Honestly!"

John sniggers quietly at the words he has just caught from both the brothers as he gives him a small toodles.

"Son?"

He instantly turns around, afraid that someone else has seen them pick-pocketing. "Yes?"

There's Molly Brown in front of him, "You know whose fiancée you're messing with?"

John shrugs and gives her a lopsided smile. He doesn't even know Victor's last name. "Just that he owns some gold mines somewhere on the arse-end, pardon me, end of the earth, but no. . . not really."

"Well, you're about to go into the snake pit. I hope you're ready for the dinner he was talking about," she casts a look up and down his rumpled old clothes, "What are you planning to wear?"

John looks down at his clothes. Back up at her. He hadn't thought about that. And neither had Sherlock.

"Just. . . this? I have nothing else."

Molly rolls her eyes and almost drags him by the sleeve of his shirt, "I figured. Come along! You can thank me later."

* * *

Men's suits and jackets and formal wear are strewn all over the place in Molly Brown's stateroom. She's is having a fine time going through three sizes of outfits. John is dressed, except for his jacket, and Molly is tying his bow tie.

"Don't feel bad about it," Molly is a nice one to share a laugh with, "My husband still can't tie one of these damn things after 20 years! Ah, there you go."

She picks up a jacket off the bed and hands it to him. John goes into the bathroom to put it on. Molly starts picking up the stuff off the bed.

"I gotta buy everything in three sizes 'cause I never know how much he's been eating while I'm away!"

John beams at her as he comes out, looking at the dressing mirror in front of him. Molly whistles in appreciation.

"My, my, my. . . you shine up like a new penny."

John smiles too. There's no way in hell Mycroft Holmes and Victor are going to treat him like steerage swine for the rest of the evening.


	4. The Dinner Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I think I need to explain the Omegaverse I've written here:
> 
> 1) Courting  
> 2) Scenting-which ends the courting and begins the mating process  
> 3) Mating-which involves the bond bite and knotting
> 
> Courting is what old-fashioned people did ;) This is 1912, so it's fairly old-fashioned for me. It's where the Alpha and the Omega prove to each other that they can lead a mutually-sustainable and happy and. . . ahem, satisfying life together. Alpha shows that he can protect and sustain the Omega. The Omega shows that he is devoted and nurturing. Stuff happens.
> 
> When Alphas and Omegas go far into the courting but it doesn't seem to come to an end when it should (and when Alphas are as thick and slow as John (although I won't say he's all that thick)), any proximity between the Alpha and the Omega would, of course, tend to intermix their scents and induce a false heat (pseudo-Estrus cycle), which is nature's own way to ensure that the mates intended for each other and courting come closer and the Alpha finally ends up scenting the Omega, thus ending the courtship and triggering the Estrus. If possible (and very common), the Alpha may also bond with the Omega at this stage.
> 
> At this point, the Omega is claimed and it is the Alpha's duty to ensure that no other Alpha who hasn't gone through the courtship process claims the Omega, willingly or unwillingly.
> 
> Upon Bonding, the Omega's scent changes, becomes richer and much more alluring to the Alpha, keeping them closer. Unfortunately, it has the same effect on the other Alphas, so just like the Alpha has proven himself to be during the courting, it's his duty to keep the Omega "un-purged" at all times (something that the Alphas love doing). Although after the Bonding, the Omega doesn't enter into courtship, and more importantly, his scent also includes the scent of the other Alpha so. . . he's safer that he was when he was Unbonded.
> 
> After Bonding and the subsequent conception, the Estrus will stop for two-three weeks in order for the Omega to prepare himself for the first trimester. After that, faux-heats begin again, in order to ensure that the Alpha stays true and faithful and does not forfeit the Bond (Omegas are faithful and devoting by nature, so there's no problem there). Once made, a bond is near-permanent. Any breach in the Bond is fatal for the Omega, less so for the Alpha.
> 
>  **Breaking bonds:** Biologically, it is the wish of the Omega to leave the Alpha and let another willing Alpha Bond with him so that the previous Bond is broken, but the Omegas love their Alphas far too much and are too dominated by them, so this rarely happens. Also, the death of a mate usually leads to the death of the other mate. It's not supernatural or something. When the Omega dies, the Alpha commits suicide out of his ego. And when the Alpha dies, the Omega usually pines away, refusing food and being a drama queen, where he ultimately dies too.
> 
> Yes, I'm theorizing Omegaverse like a professor. Yes, I know I'm out of my mind.

John feels very small as he takes in a deep breath while leaning against a wall, watching the First Class Entrance. He looks out of the window towards the beautiful purple painted sky, shot with orange. Molly Brown, his real-life fairy godmother, isn't there to escort him instead of the other way round. Drifting, supposedly soothing strains of classical music only serve to set him on edge. He has half-a-mind to retreat back to his own modest, meagre world and call off the dinner invitation but when he recalls Sherlock's expectant face, he hardens his heart and takes a bold step forward. An Alpha can never override an Omega's request during courting, he recalls.

Not that Sherlock and he are courting. They couldn't possibly. He could try though. He might have some fun with him.

As soon as the dinner would be over, he would excuse himself and bolt out of there.

And if Sherlock acquiesces, which he hopes he will, with him.

There are many couples marching ahead past him, Omegas clinging on to their Alphas' arms like dear life, women holding their husbands' arm and whispering daintily. Most people assume him to be a fine young gentleman, heir to a railroad fortune perhaps. And why wouldn't they? By Edwardian standards he looks positively badass. From his borrowed white-tie evening outfit right down to his pearl cufflinks, he looks dashing. Fabulous. His slightly untidy blond hair is combed neatly for the first time in many years.

He approaches the door. A steward bows and smartly opens it to the First Class Entrance.

"Good evening, sir."

John plays the role smoothly. Nods with just the right degree of disdain. The steward doesn't find anything amiss as John steps in and finds his breath taken away by the splendour spread out before him. Overhead is the enormous glass dome, with a crystal chandelier at its centre. Sweeping down six stories is the First Class Grand Staircase, the epitome of the opulent naval architecture. He feels like his head is already spinning. He gulps, and tries to look indifferent to the grandeur in front of his eyes. He does not belong here. He feels like a spy among the men and the women. All the people. . .

And all the people! The women in their floor length dresses, elaborate hairstyles with abundant jewellery, and feathers and tiaras sticking out of their hair. . . the gents in evening dress, standing with one hand at the small of the back, talking quietly, as if being overheard was a crime.

John confidently descends to A deck and glances at the ornate clock. He has been to school only till his mum and dad had lived, if one did not count the number of times he used to slip into classrooms till the teacher took notice. He hasn't seen the Roman Numerals in ages and can tell one number apart from other only by their relative position on its face.

He straightens his jacket and continues his descent. Several men nod a perfunctory greeting. He nods back, keeping it simple. Having nothing to do with his arms, he leans against one of the pillars and folds them, observing the other men.

He straightens up his posture as he sees ex-Congressman Isidor and his wife Ida Strauss conversing with another couple nearby. John momentarily notices the possessive hand of the Alpha clasping that of this Bonded and rolls his eyes. It wasn't like the Omega partner was going to run away, was he? Turning his attention back to the elderly couple, John points his chin slightly upwards and draws his shoulders up and back just like the Congressman has his posture. The way he adjusts himself is almost too comical. He smiles a little too politely as Isidor Strauss greets him with a slight bob of his head.

John's attention is turned back to the two people coming down the staircase: Victor and Mycroft, hands in his trouser-pockets, both looking very dapper in their formal wear. He licks his lips as he readies himself to be acknowledged by them as their equal.

"I'm extremely sorry for the delay, Mycroft," comes his voice waving down, "You know how your little brother is. Always engaged with his experiments. It's extremely fortunate that you did not send him to university."

"Why should I have? The purpose of university is to find a suitable husband. Sherlock has already done that." Mycroft's eyes are glinting victoriously and Victor smirks at him, before giving John a terse nod, not recognising him. The latter almost extends his hand in greeting only to find the two of them walking past him towards Captain E.J. Smith, and the Countess of Rothes, a thirty five-ish English blue-blood with patrician features. Mycroft takes her hand and kisses it.

"Hello, my dear."

"Good evening, Mycroft. So good to see you." Victor follows suit, "Good evening, Countess. You look absolutely lovely."

She laughs as Mycroft and Captain Smith shake hands, "Always the flatterer, Victor! I don't see Sherlock anywhere."

"Oh, he'll be along with Miss Andrea."

John sighs inaudibly, wondering why he even came to the party. It was obvious that Victor wasn't really expecting him. He was a fool for having even thought that his clothes would hide the status of his accommodations on the G-Deck and his savings.

Though somebody else was.

Sherlock comes to a stop at the first step of the staircase as he watches John practising handshakes. He smirks inwardly as he sees him so hard at work, so eager to please others. Meanwhile, John barely has time to be disheartened as he spots Sherlock, a stunning vision in black and white and dark Omega curls as he approaches him. Time seems to stop as if Sherlock were waiting for the calm moon to eclipse the glare of the overly bright sun, and words turn to dust in his mouth when he takes in John's appearance. Everyone seems to disappear from the scene as John walks over to him leisurely, beaming at him as he imitates the gentlemen's stance, hand behind his back. He takes Sherlock's hand and kisses the back of his fingers like Mycroft had done to the Countess while looking at him from under heavy-lidded eyes. Sherlock reaises he has stopped breathing and he endeavours to correct himself. John is looking at him in a way no Alpha has ever looked at him. He can't take his eyes off him.

And he's quite sure that John, being a medical man, can feel the quickening of his pulse under his fingers.

"I saw that in one of those cinema posters once, and I always wanted to do it."

Sherlock offers him a crooked smile as John smirks and extends his arm to him, unlike Victor who takes his hand forcefully, something inside Sherlock points out. Sherlock takes it and John proudly escorts him over to his fiancé, while attempting many ridiculous imitations of courteousness, making him snort very ungainly.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is also very determined to show him off. He taps Victor on his shoulder gently just as the Countess and Captain Smith depart, "Victor. . . Surely you remember Mr. Watson?"

Victor and Mycroft turn at the sound of his voice and the name. The smile drops from Mycroft's face as he sees the appeal and the sight of Sherlock's hand tucked away in John's arm like he has never seen before. John is pokerfaced, back straight, chin up as Victor is almost caught off-guard, "Watson!" He looks from Mycroft and back down at John in undisguised shock, "That's unbelievable! You could almost pass for a gentleman!"

Mycroft regains himself. Victor believes that they have scored a point against him as he smiles at his brother-in-law.

John sighs in resignation when he understands that they have officially declared war on him, "Almost."

Victor lets out a strained laugh as Sherlock glares at him, "How extraordinary! Come along, Mycroft. It's already half-past seven."

And they march away from them, leaving the two of them immersed in conversation as they descend down to the reception room on D-deck. It's almost like Sherlock is leading John, who feels very out of place even in his fine clothes.

"So?" John smirks at him, leaning in closer inadvertently to take in the whiff of Sherlock's natural non-Estrus Omaga scent, but stays away, careful not to scent him.

"What  _so_?"

"How do I look?" he asks Sherlock calmly.

"You look like you borrowed a suit from Molly Brown. That is the brand she usually prefers," Sherlock pointed out smugly.

John shakes his head, "Fashion, right. And here I thought we were getting along."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, John. If there's one thing good about the "blue-blooded", so to speak, it's their fashion sense."

"Ouch. That was very direct, Sherlock."

"I think I'll introduce you as a beta. You're shorter than me, won't come across as anAlpha."

"Again, ouch."

Between their bantering, Mycroft and Victor greet Sir Cosmo and Lady Lucille, with Andrea on Mycroft's arm. She looks no less stunning in a black and crimson evening-gown.

"Hello, Andrea dear! So remarkable this voyage, isn't it? Simply mad!"

"Completely lunatic." It might just be the first time that many people heard her speak.

Victor and Mycroft become engrossed in a conversation with Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon and Colonel Gracie, while Andrea, the Countess and Lucille discuss fashion. As they enter the swirling throng, Sherlock holds on to John's arm and picots him smoothly, showing him various notables because John will need to know them before he sits for dinner, the sort of gossip that Sherlock has been taught about to indulge in as a passenger aboard the ship among the millionaires of the world. Right now, even though he shouldn't be, his nerves are on fire and that's the only thing that comes to him so that he doesn't give his nervousness away to John. He takes a deep breath and begins.

"That is the Countess of Rothes," he whispers, pointing to the Edwardian geisha. "You'll like her, she's much more tolerable than the rest."

John loads his Homes-to-Human dictionary that he has assembled in his mind from the walking/courting they had during the day. 'Tolerable' means extremely likeable.

"And that's Captain E.J. Smith," he points to a ruddy-faced man with a milk white beard and a smart and spotless captain's uniform, "He's going to retire after this voyage."

John nods smartly. Sherlock tries not to worry himself with a random crease that has come onto John's suit jacket. He dismisses it as his stupid Omega instincts.

"And that's Joh Jacob Astor, the wealthiest man aboard," he points to a lean but well-built man with a bushy moustache, "They're returning to New York from their honeymoon in Egypt. His little wifey there Madeleine, she is a year senior to me and is in delicate condition already, a courtesy of corsets."

John silently chuckles as they both see the uncomfortable way in which she tries to adjust her back and gasps for breath. John suddenly has a question.

"Do  _you_  wear corsets?"

Sherlock gives him the most lethal death glare that he can, and John shuts his mouth up with an almost inaudible "Sorry". However, he does have a look at his waist. It doesn't look uncharacteristically and artificially narrow or padded, thanks to God.

"And that's the mining tycoon Benjamin Guggenheim, with his mistress Madame Aubert. His husband is at home with the children, of course, something that I'll also have to deal with from time to time."

John looks a little horrified but Sherlock tutts him down, "Not that I'll be very willing to say anything against it."

Victor, meanwhile, is accepting the praise of his Alpha counterparts, who are looking at Sherlock like a prize show horse.

"Congratulations, Trevor. He's splendid."

"Why, thank you!" He shares a smirk with Mycroft. Sherlock and John are quite close by, and they can hear something of the conversation.

"Victor's a lucky man," pipes in Colonel Gracie, "I know him well, and it can only be luck."

"How can you say that Colonel?" says Mycroft, "Victor Trevor is a great catch."

John almost snorts and they both rush away from there, keen to avoid attention, "I might be wrong. . . but I think Victor took fancy to the wrong person. Your brother is completely in love with him."

Sherlock bursts into raucous laughter, not caring that it is quite unbecoming of an Omega, "Oh, he is! You have no idea."

Suddenly, Sherlock finds himself closer to John much more than he always is. With a strained look at Victor, he composes himself. John doesn't notice his discomfort.

"And that is Dr. Will Minahan from Wisconsin," Sherlock points discretely to a man talking to his wife in furtive voices. John notices several people talking about him too, "He had his fortune read shortly before the voyage," and then he pitches his voice lower, "The fortune teller predicted his death aboard the ship."

John breaks out laughing, "Seriously?! People still do that voodoo stuff?!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "It's not voodoo. It's more passive. Palm reading is the art of—"

"Yeah, alright," John gives up, and then lowers his voice because the genteel people around him are looking around for the obnoxious loudmouth around them, "Christ, do Omegas have to study things while they're kept locked up?"

"No, a palm reader used to come to our estate to read our Sire's fortune twice a week."

"Let me guess," John smirks, "You were her apprentice."

"Again, no. She brought me belladonna and nightshade tinctures secretly. Once she procured rattlesnake poison for me from America. I always paid her very handsomely. As an Omega, I was allowed free use of our Sire's money to buy fashionable clothes for myself, you see."

John gazes at him reverently, "Jesus. Only you, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks at him under lowered, suspicious eyes, "What only me?"

The corner of his lips twitch, and then, Sherlock suspects, he changes his words, "What did you do with the poison?"

"Just studying," Sherlock reassures him blandly, "I'm not a suicidal Omega in throes."

"I wasn't suggesting that. Just. . . whatever did you do with studying poisons?"

Sherlock shrugs, "Passing time, simply."

John regards him with something that is not appreciation or dismay, maybe close to exasperation, "Did you stay locked up in your room all day?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. John laughs thinking that Sherlock is simply joking, but Sherlock doesn't smile one bit.

"Oh, look who it is!" John points at the pink lady from before, now clad in royal blue, "That must be the husband."

"Indeed. He's trying his best to show off every last piece of jewellery they own!"

As she turns around, John's eyes are captured by an ostentatious necklace sitting on her creamy chest. . . a complex setting with a massive central heart-shaped blue stone which goes perfectly with her dress. It is huge. . . a rare malevolent diamond glittering with an infinity of scalpel-like inner reflections. Many women are staring at it, mostly in unconcealed jealousy.

"My God," he gasps, nudging Sherlock, "will you look at that?"

Sherlock reminds himself that John is still very alien to their world. "Don't stare, John."

John catches himself. "Yeah, sorry," he mumbles, "They've tutored you rather well."

He frowns, "In what?"

"All the names and titles. It flew right past my head, except that delicate condition thing."

Sherlock and John share an inward smile at that, something that they intend to keep a secret from the rest of the world.

"Are there any other Omegas on this ship?" John asks innocently, but Sherlock glowers all the same.

"Why? Is one not enough for you?"

John laughs, "Oh no. One's too much for me," he covers Sherlock's arm on his with a possessive air before they both realise what they're doing.

"Sorry," John glances around, "got carried away. Never seen an Omega, you know."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Don't lie."

"I'm not.

Molly Brown comes up grinning from behind them, looking good in a beaded black dress, in her own busty broad-shouldered way, "Care to escort a lady to dinner?"

Sherlock smiles as John offers his arm to her, grinning back, "Certainly." Meanwhile, Victor tries to win him back by calling him by the insufferable nickname, "Sweetpea?" Sherlock avoids it as far as possible. It's embarrassing to be compared to a sweet pea, which in fact, doesn't exist, if one has to go by Sherlock's limited knowledge.

"Ain't nothin' to it, is there, John?"

"Yeah, you just dress like a pallbearer and keep your nose up, I s'pose."

Sherlock snorts a little at that.

"Remember," she lowers her voice so that only he can hear her, "they're in love with money, so just act like you've got a loads of it and you're in the club. . . I'm off for now, you two enjoy," she winks at John and leaves.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's grip on John's arm strengthens as he notices Madeleine Astor's appraising look and he steers him away towards the other end of the dining saloon. It is like a ballroom at a grand palace, alive and lit by a constellation of chandeliers, full of elegantly dressed people and flooding with beautiful music from Wallace Hartley's small orchestra.

"Sweetpea?" comes another call from Victor. Sherlock keeps holding on to John's arm and follows the advice that Molly gave John.

"Didn't take you as the holding type one," John remarks, bending a little towards Sherlock and indicates to the grip on his arm. Sherlock makes a face and retracts it.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking that I'm as charmed as Madeleine Astor was. This is just an accepted social convention. In the presence and the consent of their Alpha, an Omega is allowed to be escorted by another Alpha."

This earns him an ungainly snort from John, "Which Alpha's consent?"

Sherlock pouts at the insinuation and the incriminatingly daring flirting that an Alpha couldn't help in the process of courting. There is a very small part of him which wants to flirt back, but Sherlock simply subdues that instinct in him. It will be simply naive of him to think so. To think that he and John are courting.

However John seems to catch himself, "I. . . erm, apologise for that. That was uncalled for."

"Gentlemen do not laugh like that, Mr. Watson," he chides after the tension begins to dissipate, sidestepping their mutual discomfort, "their laughter proudly booms till the seventh heaven."

At this, John relaxes—assuming that Sherlock has forgiven him for his less-than-gentlemanly conduct—and Sherlock gives him a tentative smile, "So you mean that if I laugh like a gentleman, the whole ship must be able to hear me?"

"I beseech you, John. Do not even think of _laughing_ like a gentleman."

As a waiter approaches, John ends up unconsciously nodding at him as an acknowledgement.

"You just greeted the waiter," Sherlock points out when the bewildered waiter walks away, balancing the overlarge plate on his palms.

John seems at a loss of words, and then offers confidently, "I was acknowledging someone behind him."

"Oh, friend of yours?" Sherlock teases. His face is perfectly composed but one corner of his mouth is tipped upwards him humour.

"Old friend," John says, not faltering for a bit. It's almost difficult to say whether he's only fibbing. Even though in Sherlock's eyes, John is an outcast, who will simply never fit into the group of pretentious bigots that was the genteel society—should never fit in or else the world would be dimmer—John is clever enough at picking up cues and acting like new money almost effortlessly. Still, there is a stiffness to his posture, an awkwardness to his nod, an unpretentiousness to his greeting smile that makes his stand out of the throng and mark him in white along the blacks—or perhaps, black among the whites, as the rest of the society would clearly believe.

Sherlock chooses not to say anything about that.

"Well, now we're moving into the landmine," he points to a table where Mycroft is already seated while Victor, standing, is making conversation with Benjamin Guggenheim and kisses Madame Aubert's hand when she approaches. The Captain seeks leave of the Countess as he helps her into the chair, "That's where we're dining. The Countess is an old friend of ours, Mycroft's more than mine, so please, I beg of you, do something so offending that she fills Mycroft's ears tomorrow during the breakfast."

John gives him a wry smile, "I'm not going to offend the one person you deem tolerable."

Sherlock seems to consider this, "You're right, you should offend Lady Duff-Gordon. She's insufferable when she goes on about someone she doesn't approve of."

John lets out an all-suffering sigh at which Sherlock inches closer, "One more thing, the nod is supposed to be curt and not an attempt to terrorise the genteel folk by fixing them with a chin down nod."

John nods, at which Sherlock mouths, "Acceptable."

John sighs as if saying _I don't even feel like myself_.

"Well you do shine like a _new_ penny, Mr. Watson," Sherlock reads his thoughts as he clears his throat sternly when they reach the Countess, "Do your best. Let her speak first."

"Sherlock," John tries to stop him, his nervousness peeking through, "What am I—?"

"Just trust me. I'll lead you through everything. Just follow me," and then he raises his voice, "Countess."

Before John has the time to react, the Countess is already turning. He instantly composes himself as he extends a hand to the Countess. The Countess smiles as John takes her hand to kiss it, while throwing Sherlock a look of 'what _is_ he doing?' before composing herself completely to smile politely at John.

"Countess, this is John Watson. John, the Countess of Rothes, very old family friend."

"Ah, Mr. Watson, pleasure. How do you do, sir?" the Countess asks in a pleasant voice.

"Very well, Countess," John smiles, trying to imitate a conversation he had heard earlier, "The ship, the journey, it's all so marvellous!"

"We'll take your leave, Countess," Sherlock acknowledges and hooks his hand in John's arm willingly, lowering his voice, "Well done. Mycroft will be so annoyed tomorrow."

John squints at him, "I haven't done anything objectionable."

Sherlock smirks, "Well, cinema posters shouldn't always be trusted—more so with close-minded individuals."

John's eyes go wide, and his gaze automatically drops to Sherlock's hand, where he had kissed, " _Christ_ , I wasn't supposed to—?"

"It's. . . I wasn't offended" Sherlock reassures, "I don't mind, besides you know me somewhat—and this is the part where you let go of my hand."

John peers at the sudden change in his tone, from relaxed to tense and flinching, "Why?"

Sherlock retracts his hand smartly from his arm as Victor smiles at him. As Victor pulls out the chair for him, Sherlock and Victor both shoot him a look, one unreadable, and other with victory in his eyes. Sherlock looks away and John is distracted by Molly Brown sitting down beside him. Victor takes his place between Sherlock and Mycroft, giving Mycroft a charming smile and leaning back against his chair with an air of careless arrogance. Mycroft acknowledges him with a polite smile, eyes John warily for a moment and then leans in to murmur something to Andrea. She nods, before rising and walking out of the hall.

"Where did she go now?" Victor indicates at her retreating figure, "Dinner's about to start."

"To station Mr. Gregson near our suite." Seeing Victor's puzzled expression, he adds, "I'm exercising my own precautions."

Victor rolls his eyes, "Be at peace, Mycroft. He's just a stupid rat! I wouldn't want my poor old valet missing dinner over such a trifle."

Mycroft doesn't say anything, eyeing Sherlock's stern expression at Victor's thoughts about John. Stupid people don't simply make their way into Sherlock Holmes' heart.

* * *

"Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Watson," Mycroft smiles pleasantly at John, "I hear that they're quite good on this ship."

John is seated two seats away from Sherlock, who is flanked by Victor and Thomas Andrews. Also at the table are Molly Brown, Andrea, Ismay, Colonel Gracie, the Countess, Guggenheim, Madame Aubert, the Astors and the Duff-Gordons. John tries not to look too affronted by the question, instead choosing an answer that he knows Sherlock would certainly praise him for, although not openly.

"The best I've seen,  _sir_ ," there's a touch of underlying mockery in 'sir'. "Hardly any rats."

Most of the people succumb to laughter. They think that he is joking. Sherlock looks relieved as John steals a look at him and knows that he has spoken correctly. Victor is somewhat taken aback but his verbal defenses don't crumble, "Mr. Watson here is joining us from the third class. He was of some assistance to my fiancée last night."

And there it is again.  _My fiancée_.

Furtive whispers are exchanged. John becomes the subject of clandestine glances. Now they're all feeling terribly liberal and dangerous. Guggenheim even bows in Sir Duff-Gordon's direction, speaking in a low voice, "What is Trevor hoping to prove, bringing this. . . bohemian. . . up here?"

"Oh, don't you worry about him!" Colonel Gracie comes to John's rescue before Sherlock can intervene, "He's a fine lad! Helped up young Sherlock here when he had fallen. . . pardon me, almost fallen off the ship! Took all of it very nobly, this Watson boy here!"

Everyone on the table gasps at that. Mr. Andrews turns to Sherlock, "Oh dear, how did that happen—?"

"I'm sure we don't need the anecdote be repeated again, do we, Sherlock?"

Ignoring his brother, he mentions towards John, hailing him as his saviour. "I slipped and Mr. Watson here saved me from plunging into the waters."

"Dear Lord," he soft voice of Lady Duff-Gordon comes across as almost a whisper, an expression of politeness in her own way, "You have our sincere thanks, Mr. Watson. Although young Sherlock here can be very wayward sometimes, we all do adore him very much."

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically at being called  _young Sherlock_  over and over again, mouthing 'spare me' to John. John barely manages to hide his smirk at the young stubborn Omega. There's something akin to glee in his eyes to see his Alpha brother losing for the first time. Sherlock motions surreptitiously for John to take his napkin off his plate as the waiters arrive. It's odd; Victor and Mycroft notice the clandestine interactions between the two young boys, and it is very rare for Sherlock to take to someone so easily, more so for an Alpha to be led and told about by an Omega.

As for John, he manages to remove the napkin only to find himself bamboozled by three different kinds of forks, two kinds of knives, a salad fork and a spoon. He blinks several times before turning to Molly for guidance, "Are these all for me?"

"Just start from the outside and work your way in."

Victor, meanwhile, notices John's dilemma and finds another way of embarrassing him. He speaks to him as if to a child, instructing him on what the waiter has just laid for him.

"This is  _foie gras._  It's goose liver."

John looks slightly unsettled by the sound of it. He smiles politely, but the waiter isn't ready to leave him alone.

"How do you take your caviar, sir?"

John opens his mouth to answer, but Victor orders for him.

"Just a soupcon of lemon. You see, John, it improves the flavour with the champagne."

He's about to be served when John shakes his head, looking very directly at Sherlock, "No caviar for me, thanks. Never did like it much."

Most of them laugh at that. John truly is ignorant, they all think. But the only thing that matters to him is the small honest smile that curves Sherlock's lips upwards, and the thought that it was a private joke between the two of them.

"And where exactly do you live, Mr. Watson?" Mycroft withdraws his observing gaze from his brother to set them cold and merciless on John. He's all set to tear him apart.

"Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic," John replies, undeterred, determined to fight and keep his ground like an Alpha. "After that, I'm on God's good humour."

Salad is served. John reaches for the fish fork. Sherlock gives him a look and picks up the salad fork, prompting him with his eyes. He changes forks.

"How is it you have the means to travel?"

John is never the one to be ashamed of what he is, "You see, I work my way from place to place. Some manual labour. Some sketching, sometimes as a medical assistant to GPs. I planned to save some for America. Learn there, earn there. Vast opportunities. Land of gold, you'd know that very well, won't you, Victor?" he says. Sherlock listens on, noting the tone of his voice with a smirk. "Never really managed to save enough. But then I won a ticket in here at a lucky hand in poker."

He glances at Sherlock, "A very lucky hand."

"All life is truly a game of luck!" remarks Colonel Gracie.

Victor smirks at that, the corner of his lip twitching in disdain, a detail that only John can see, "A real man makes his own luck. Right, Watson?"

John nods tersely while Mycroft delivers another blow, "You find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?"

Molly looks at Mycroft sternly. He does not falter under her angry glare. He remains deadpanned, his polite tenor almost straining with the effort of victory.

John bites his lip as Sherlock looks shocked, "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I do," his eyes are cold as he tries to answer him as smartly as possible, "It's a big world, and I want to see it all before I go. My da was always going on about the ocean. He died in the town he was born in, and never saw it. You can't wait around, because you never know what hand you're going to get dealt next. I've been on the road since my folks died. Something like that teaches you to take life as it comes at you.

"I love waking up in the morning not knowing what's going to happen or who I'm going to meet," he motions openly towards Sherlock, "I always wanted to be a doctor, and I'm ready to work hard for it. You may laugh all you like, Victor. My mate Mike does that all the time. He thinks I'm naive. I think I dream big. For example, just the other night I was sleeping under a bridge, and now, here I am, on the grandest ship in the world, having champagne with you fine people. No one would have thought that, would they? So, I try and make each day count."

Molly Brown raises her glass in a salute, "Well said, John! I wish Mr. Brown were half as good as you. He's one terrible speaker."

"Hear hear!"

Sherlock's eyes are transfixed onto those of John's as he raises his wineglass, "To making it count." Victor looks at him with confusion and alarm, seeing that he's losing the battle, losing his supremacy over Sherlock as the promised Alpha to a steerage rat.

John smiles gratefully as everyone except Victor, Mycroft and Mr. Andrews raise their glasses in unison, "To making it count!"

Molly Brown notices that Mr. Andrews, sitting next to her, is writing in his notebook, completely ignoring the conversation.

"Mr. Andrews, what are you doing? I see you everywhere writing in this little book.What's that?  _Increase number of screws in hat hooks from 2 to 3._ You build the biggest ship in the world, you're sitting in its First Class Dinner Saloon and this preoccupies you?!"

Andrews smiles sheepishly.

"He knows every rivet in her," Ismay chuckles, "don't you Thomas? His blood and soul are in the ship. She may be mine on paper, but in the eyes of God she belongs to Thomas Andrews."

"Your ship is a wonder, Mr. Andrews," John says sincerely, "truly."

He smiles pleasantly, "Thank you, John."

The dinner proceeds very swiftly and pleasantly, with Sherlock guiding John through the various predictable stages and Mycroft and Victor eyeing their interactions as Sherlock completely ignores the Alpha he is meant for. But their normal schedule is disrupted by a scuffle at the door. Sherlock's eyes travel over. There's Quartermaster Rowe, struggling with the stewards at the entrance.

"Sir, after the dinner, sir!"

"Lemme in, I say. S' about Mrs. Wilson!"

At the mention of the name, a man that Sherlock recognises as the pink lady's husband, pushes back his chair noisily and stands up. "What happened?" He looks very pale and ashen for someone enjoying the dinner.

John turns to see what was causing the commotion, and so do Molly and Mr. Andrews. At this point, many are throwing curious glances over in Mr. Wilson's direction.

"Mr. Wilson?"

Rowe is let in. His voice is very low but is heard very clearly owing to the pin-drop silence. However, he had the common-sense to mutter the message into the other man's ears. The latter blanches and suddenly goes very stiff. There's a sudden gasp from people as some of them catch the phrase 'fell overboard'. The shocking news is spread across at the speed of light. Mutterings, incoherent remarks and queries ensue. Some of the people at John's table risk a glance at Sherlock. Too many people falling overboard.

"What?" His eyes grow wide with shock. He looks like he's about to have a panic attack, "What did you say? What do you mean 'fell overboard'?"

"We. . .erm, your wife, sir, we managed to-haul her out, sir, but. . ." The Quartermaster looks dismayed as he finds himself withholding the attention of the room and the bringer of very bad news. He does not speak ahead as he sees colour draining from Mr. Wilson's cheeks alarmingly.

"Stuart!" A man sitting beside him, whom John recognises as Colonel Moran, comes to his aid, "Steady yourself! Fetch some brandy! Quick, man!"

His face, swallowed by an unearthly pallor now regains some colour as he takes a sip from the brandy flask that he offers him. He steadies himself, breathing in deeply. A woman near him, clad in a superb black and gold dinner gown fixes him under an unnatural stare, "Does she have a large blue stone around her-?"

"Mother!" Stuart Wilson is immensely horrified that all his mother could think of at the moment was their family heirloom, "Lead the way, please!"

Rowe nods and acquiesces but she is not mollified, "Answer me! Did she have the Heart of the Ocean around her neck?!"

Stuart Wilson looks utterly shaken as the Quartermaster denies it with a startled nod, "Didn't see anything like that, ma'am. Such a thing oughta be seen, ma'am."

There's a louder, more appalled gasp now. John finds himself slightly repulsed by the people he's surrounded with when he notices this little detail.

"Excuse me, ladies," she gets up, retaining her stoic demeanour, "Lead the way, Mr. Quartermaster. No need to accompany us, Colonel."

Colonel Moran casts a furtive glance around, his eyes rueful. People are looking at him like he's an alien, whispering openly and throwing accusatory glances in his direction. Suddenly he whips around to see that Wallace Hartley and his band have stopped playing and are surveying the situation with utmost anxiety.

"What are you morons looking at?" He bursts out at them, "Keep playin'!"

The people around him gasp at the rashness of his language as the band nod apologetically, while murmuring angrily and start to play an extra cheerful tune.

At the other end of the dining saloon, an impressed Victor Trevor can be seen whispering into Mycroft's ears, "You were quite right, Mycroft. I wish you could predict the stocks as well."

The commotion dies down slowly as the party exits the room. By this time, dessert has been served and a waiter arrives with cigars in a humidor on a wheeled cart like nothing extraordinary had just happened. The men start clipping ends and lighting them. John turns back to see a mischievous glint in Sherlock's eyes before it disappears in a flash. He's almost sure that he has imagined it.

"What an unpleasant episode," Ismay remarks, "I think we better had return the ladies and the Omegas back to the rooms, shan't we?"

Sure enough, Victor's hands are on Sherlock's shoulders, "May I escort you back to the cabin, Sherlock?"

He manages a small glance in John's direction, who's rising from his chair, "I think I'll stay here with Andrea and the Countess."

Victor is quite surprised. Sherlock is actually volunteering to stay with the women. But he doesn't question him, seeing as it is as he always desired, "I won't be late. Just some—"

"I know. You are going to retreat into a cloud of smoke with Mycroft and congratulate each other on being masters of the universe."

"You always make it all sound so charming, sweetpea!" Victor winks at him and sweeps past John without a second look. The latter walks back to Sherlock as he sees Victor's retreating figure.

"John, must you go?"

John shrugs his shoulders resignedly, "Time for my coach to turn back into a pumpkin. Good night, Sherlock."

Andrea turns just in time to see Sherlock extend his hand towards John expectantly. She watches their exchange for a longer duration than she normally would have done, and then returns back to Lady Duff-Gordon and the Countess, cataloguing it to inform her employer/perhaps-paramour later.

"You quite like that, don't you?" John takes it and kisses it.

"I thought you were thorough with your manners, Mr. Watson."

John's smile fades a little as he feels a tiny chit being slipped into his hand. "See you  _very_  soon, John."

He takes one last look at Sherlock watching him with keen anticipation and walks out of the saloon, slipping the chit stealthily into his pocket. It is only when he reaches outside does he open the note to read it.

**_Come at once if convenient. The clock._ **

He turns it around as ink stains his fingers.

**_If inconvenient, come all the same._ **

**_Make it count._ **

He turns around to see that Sherlock has already disappeared from his place.

* * *

John crosses the A-Deck foyer, sighting Sherlock at the landing above. Overhead is the crystal dome. Sherlock has his back to him, studying the ornate clock with its carved figures of Honour and Glory. It is half-past-eight.

Heart hammering in his chest, he goes up the sweeping staircase toward him. By Jove, Sherlock is so unearthly pale and beautiful that John wants nothing but to scent him, and curse himself for thinking that. Sherlock is still with him because he can hide behind him, from the world he hates but doesn't know that he does. And John will be the one to show him. He's inexplicably nervous. Sherlock is really good at planning secret trysts and it spikes arousing adrenaline in him. His Omega curls, the curves of his body, he's so beyond him, but John is making his way, isn't sure if he must. . .

All thoughts fly from his mind when Sherlock turns, sees him. . . and smiles. By Jove, there's the same mischievous glint in his eyes. This time it does not disappear. It lingers, quite endearingly. John wants to curse every man and woman on this earth responsible for keeping this wonderfully amazing Omega cooped up inside four walls.

"So. . . what now?" He gazes up at him reverently. For once, an Alpha looks up to an Omega to lead him, and John doesn't care. Anything for Sherlock. Anything for him. A thousand kisses to his pale, delicate fingers if he desires him to.

"We're going to find out what really happened to Jennifer Wilson, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun trivia: The Dr. Will Manahan from Wisconsin mentioned here did have his fortune predicted by a fortune teller before the journey. She foresaw his death aboard the ship. Unfortunately she was right.
> 
> Okay, not so fun trivia


	5. Mystery Aboard The Titanic

John is puzzled, "What do you mean? She fell overboard, didn't she?"

Sherlock smirks, "Did she now? You saw the family's reaction. Wasn't there something amiss?"

He thinks back to the ashen-faced husband and the ill-timed enquiry about the Heart Of The Ocean, "You think the-erm. . . husband pushed her? But he was there all the time."

"I'm not sure yet. That's why we're going to the boat deck."

"We?"

Sherlock nods, making John smirk conspiratorially, "Aye. We."

 

* * *

 

They walk out of the A-deck and proceed towards where Jennifer Wilson probably fell from, according to the sea boys anyway. John witnesses Sherlock transform completely into a trained bloodhound, eyes sparkling with the promise of _adventure_ , brows drawn into two hard black lines. Years and years of being locked away in a golden cage crumble away to the sudden joy of newly found freedom and the very-much-required stimulation of his mind. He sets down with a small hand lens that he's grabbed from the Quartermaster's binoculars, and he settles down to examine the rails.

While Sherlock is completely obsessed with finding something-that-Heaven-only-knew on the railing, John observes his patient, careful movements. It's brilliant to see him like this, it's entirely novel seeing an Omega like this, but John supposes that it makes sense after all, if not traditional. Omega senses are sharper than usual Alpha or Beta ones, even if they are recommended to be used for households tasks like interior decorating or picking the perfect colour or the perfect spice from India instead of. . . whatever Sherlock is doing right now.

John doesn't know whether to be sorry to see Sherlock so excited, knowing that it's only one night. Suddenly he begins to wonder about what sort of life Sherlock must have led that made a rebellious Omega like him so withdrawn and quiet in front of others. If only John could, if only he was of Sherlock's station, if only he could go through courtship with him, intercede between the quite non-existent courting that Sherlock and Victor Trevor were playing and prove himself as a capable Alpha by able to provide Sherlock the sustenance, because John still has a small lingering doubt about Sherlock living in poverty, even if for the happier life he would lead, as suggested by him.

But one night or not, if Sherlock wants to live in the moment of that sort of life, God let him. John will do anything to let him live.

He thinks about the little problem, tossing and turning it at the back of his head, but not for long as he notices Sherlock's face break into a triumphant smile.

"She was not pushed."

John does not understand the significance of that victorious look on his face as Sherlock points at the railing. His eyes narrow slightly.

"But she did not fall off either," he continues, "It cannot be an accident." He bends down and peers at his latest discovery: scratch marks on the white-painted gunwale due to the heels of her shoes.

"She jumped?"

"Precisely. But why?"

He thinks hard for a reason bad enough to drive a woman to her death, "Domestic abuse?" He tries to recall every single deduction that Sherlock had made about her.

"Don't be absurd, John. She was quite happy with Colonel Moran. She has no reason to jump. . . Come along, you're a doctor. You'll prove useful."

"Well. . . not yet. . ."

"I suppose that'll do, Doctor Watson M.D. We'll be just in time," says he with a mischievous smirk.

John returns it. The promise of adventure is infectious indeed.

 

* * *

 

"There aren't that many doctors aboard. I'm sure they'll be. . . happy with some useful medical advice," says Sherlock as they go to the Quartermaster who had informed the party of the bad news. John quirks his eyebrow at the way Sherlock says 'happy'. He looks like he knows more about the suicide than what is apparent to his eyes.

"He's a doctor," he announces as they enter the Quartermaster's cabin. Rowe looks up surprised. He recognizes John from that day, but he doesn't understand how come he's dressed in such fine clothes.

"Beg your pardon, sir?" he says. Somehow, the manners and the civility demanded from the crew while talking to First Class is still not convincing by their rough voices.

"For Mrs. Wilson, moron!" says he impatiently, and the Alpha Quartermaster backs away, startled to hear an Omega being so brash, "I've found a doctor. I remember you saying about not finding a doctor, about the shortage of the hospital staff. Surely your pea-sized brain can retain that much?"

The man looks a little spooked as Sherlock towers above him, "Y-yes, of course, sir. Q Hitchins must have sent you, hasn't he, sir?"

Sherlock looks exceedingly pleased, "Care to lead the way?"

"Yes, come right along, sir!"

Sherlock leaves the situation to John's charge. He does only the listening part, whilst smiling inwardly at his Alpha friend's preparedness. Sherlock cannot recall the last time he had an Alpha. . . _friend_. Most of them looked at him with either hatred or resentment during the childhood, and blinding lust during the teenage years. He isn't used to be liked by people his age. He is used to be irritating and unnerving to them.

Well, he can't be unnerving to the Countess and the Marquéssa, could he? Even though he hates them. He hates the British peerage. He hates the blue-blooded.

He shakes those thoughts away. He can't let anger consume him again. Not after what had happened the last time he had let water go over his head. John is right. Being furious at others and taking your own life in the hope that they'll at least value your passing away are ridiculous thoughts. He hadn't been thinking correctly that night.

If he had thought correctly, he might never have met John Watson.

"We pulled her out twenty minutes ago, sir. The boys saw her plungin' down and rushed to save her with Emergency Boat 1, sir. I hurried to inform the squire about it and came back here. That's all I know, sir."

Sherlock wants to tell him to stop punctuating his sentences with 'sir'. It's distracting. But he doesn't say that. Waste, that. Sherlock can tell him to stop calling him 'sir' hundred times and he'll still call him 'sir' the hundred and first time.

"You implied that she had died."

"Yes, but we need a professional opinion sir. The hospital staff does not like being disturbed during dinner, sir. And we need a doctor's declaration, sir."

Sherlock feels John stiffen a little beside him. Playing fake doctor doesn't fit well with him. His lower lip twitches a bit which he hides by running his tongue over the bottom lip. Sensing the tension, he decides to cut in, "And where's her body now?"

Rowe looks like he is restraining a frown, probably wondering what an Omega was doing in all of this. Sherlock returns the impending frown it ten times worse, causing him to look away.

"In the operating room, sir. It's being led there as we speak, sir. The husband was in quite a shock for some time, sir."

John was beginning to see something wrong now. Mr. Wilson was abusive. He couldn't have been very sad. After all, he'd just have one less mouth to feed. Sherlock nods upon seeing his enlightened face.

They go down the elevator to the C Deck and down a staircase to D Deck till they come to the said room. Stuart Wilson and his mother are there, along with Able Officer Callahan and a steward and their butler. Their maid is unmistakeably absent. John knows that these First Class people tended to have their maids especially when there was a young lady as Jennifer Wilson travelling. The mother is quite aloof while the husband has his dead wife in his arms, looking quite shaken. He rises upon seeing the newcomers.

"Who are these gentlemen, Mr. Quartermaster?" His voice is deceptively dead. Sherlock smiles upon seeing the dead woman, as if it had given the case and the theories in his mind a new direction.

"Relax sir," John says reassuringly, "I'm a doctor. Now if you would allow me. . ."

"Yes, doctor," he gulps, backing away from Jennifer Wilson's body, "Of course. She isn't dead, doctor. Tell me she isn't dead."

John looks at his friend, expecting him to appear like he wants to snap at him that loss of pulse means the person has flat lined. However, Sherlock's expression is like granite as he gives him a curt nod, giving him permission to examine her.

"Waste of time. . . getting a doctor," says the mother irritably. "She isn't alive! It's the damn English. . . doing everything by the book! And I have to miss my dinner over such a trifle!"

"Mother!" Stuart Wilson looks confused and extremely embarrassed by her conduct and her fanatical outburst. He turns to Sherlock and gives him a sloppy ashamed look, something which is acknowledged by a slight twitch of the lips. He looks confused at the scent of an Omega, but looks away towards the doctor anyway. Sherlock notices this little detail and moves away towards a washbasin close by. He takes a soap bar and washes his hands till he's satisfied, thereafter joining the little group huddled by the sickbed.

John sits down between them and takes her pulse and her temperature, while trying his best not to scowl at the mother and at the distinct change in odour in the room. He frowns a little and looks up at Sherlock instinctively, who surreptitiously gestures at him not to say anything. He looks down at the body again and sees something else that is wrong, though he cannot exactly put his finger on it. He hopes that Sherlock at least does and withdraws himself after performing several other checks.

"Dead, "he says in a bland voice, "Hypothermia. Loss of core body temperature, that is."

"Thank you, doctor," says the mother with a ring of finality in her voice and folds herself away from rest of the party. An aura of 'I told you so' emanates from her. A seaman arrives with Assistant Surgeon Simpson, shouting 'I've finally found a doctor, sirs!' just as the Quartermaster Rowe and Able Officer Callahan thank John and Sherlock for their assistance. They excuse themselves out of there because this is their cue to leave. They walk through the corridor fast and then to the stairs, giggling a little in the beginning and then start laughing hard at their narrow escape. John is mesmerised by the wonderful steely glitter in Sherlock's eyes.

"Now they're going to think I'm an idiot! When that other doctor tells 'em that she drowned!"

"Relax," Sherlock holds back an amused smile, but can't help it as he chuckles again, "You make a brilliant impression of an idiot. At any rate, your _illustrious_ career hasn't started yet, Doctor Watson, so don't worry."

John rolls his eyes, placating himself on the fact that Sherlock thought that everybody was an idiot, "Go on, tell me. What did I miss?"

"Nothing," he appears much more cheerful than John has ever seen him, "You got far more than I do."

"I did?"

He clears his throat, now they're talking business, "You came in contact with the body. Tell me what you gathered."

"Well. . . she died hours ago. She had quite a struggle when she died. She did not die of hypothermia, that's for certain. She drowned."

Sherlock looks quite impressed, "They might actually make a good doctor out of you. And a marginally good actor too."

"Well," John nods stiffly, never the one to bask in congratulations or praise, even if it came from Sherlock himself, "I had some practice in the dining saloon," he smiles wryly, "So why did you ask me to lie?"

"Because lying to them would get us to the truth. I need some air. Come on, then. We've got a little. . . trouble to cause to a certain colonel."

"Trouble? Care to explain what happened there?"

Sherlock grins appreciatively, "A con. Very big con. We need to move fast. The scent won't last long."

His cryptic words confuse John to no end.

 

* * *

 

They make their way back up to A-deck. He still hasn't disclosed his plan to John yet. He requests a passing steward for some water and smoothes down his curls, sticking them against his scalp. John watches his bizarre actions but doesn't say anything. They stop walking after sometime. The entrance to the smoke room is a few feet away from them.

"I bet Colonel Moran will still be there," says he to John, "playing the part of keeping a cheerful facade with a tinge of worry at the back of his head."

"Colonel Moran. . . that man Mrs. Wilson is having an affair with?"

"Precisely. He must be her confidante, being the woman's paramour. At this point only he can lead us to where she is."

John sees stars, both literally and figuratively, in bewilderment. A crease appears between his brows and he settles into deep thought. When he sees that he can't understand the giant leaps Sherlock is taking, he finally turns to his last resort, "Sherlock I don't. . ."

There's no one there beside him. He looks around. There's practically no sign of Sherlock. Some people stare strangely at him when they see him talking to himself. His eyes wander all over the place till they find the Omega inside the smoking room. John can't help but utter a quiet and helpless 'bastard' under his breath, even though he isn't supposed to call his—an Omega, he tells himself—that.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock scans the First Class Smoking Parlour for Moran. He spots him sitting at the other end of the room with Ismay, Colonel Gracie and Sir Duff-Gordon. The next thing his eyes rush to is Victor's location, who is sitting nearby with Guggenheim, Astor and Mycroft, discussing the impact of various government policies on industry. Sherlock hesitates for a moment, but solving the case takes priority over everything. He notices a steward's uniform and decides to grab some for himself. Luckily, that disinfectant-ish smell from the hospital brand soap is strong enough to camouflage his true smell. He would have sent John inside instead only if he had faith in his pick pocketing abilities. He should have learnt when he had the chance.

He grabs a glass of whiskey and "accidentally" pours it down a steward's front, keeping the episode well away from Victor's table. The steward looks at his ruined uniform with resentment, but doesn't say anything except for profuse apologies, "Oh, sorry sir!" he goes into autopilot, "Extremely sorry for that, sir!"

But what he doesn't realized is that in his distress, Sherlock manages to pull off his bowtie with one smooth tug.

"Watch where you're going, moron!" He responds like a typical first class snobbish Alpha. He ties the bowtie around his neck.

Next, he buttons his jacket and moves toward Moran, sticking a match for him to light the cigar for him. No one notices that the steward is none other than Sherlock, not even the ever-watchful Gregson. They're all busy in their cards, smoking, drinking and talking. Not one person notices Sherlock's fingers creeping into the Colonel's trouser-pocket to draw out the key to his cabin. He takes out one out of the two identical keys inside a ring, examines it and replaces the other into his trouser pocket. Having got his prize, he sneaks out of the parlour to join John who is quite ill-tempered at this moment, but mostly exasperated. Sherlock does not process this and waves the little key in front of him.

"I've got the keys to Colonel Moran's stateroom! Now I know in which room he stays," He whispers excitedly.

John's eyes widen in astonishment, all temper tantrums forgotten, "What?! Why? How?"

"He's the one who can lead us to Mrs. Wilson."

"What? Mrs. . . Sherlock!" John grabs his arm and forces him to face him. Sherlock looks at John's strong grip and back into his blue eyes, causing him to release him at once, "You haven't told me a single thing about what's happening!"

It strikes him. He hasn't told John anything in his desperation to solve the problem. He whisper-shouts, "You conned everyone into declaring me a doctor and now you're trying to break into a suite?! I get some credit for playing along with your decidedly illegal methods of—"

"You put it in a rather spicy way," Sherlock winks, but upon seeing John's persecuted expression, he sobers up, "Give me a minute, John. I am not fond of unfinished melodies. Now this key," they talk as they go down the elevator to the C Deck, "Belongs to C-70. We'll sit and wait there till she comes."

"Who?"

Sherlock glances at the Elevator Operator and then whispers in John's ear as quietly as possible, "Mrs. Wilson," leaving John's mouth open in undisguised shock. "But we need to go the Master-at-Arms' first."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock opens the door and whispers to John as they approach suite number C-70, "About half-an-hour should do it. Victor usually returns to me by ten o'clock latest. The master-at-arms said that he will be here by then. Meanwhile, I have some time to test my theory."

They had come to the C Deck only after informing the master-at-arms about the situation, despite Sherlock's demands for the opposite. But even he could not deny John's reasonable assertion that the police should be involved in this mystery. Being an ex-colonel, Moran could have firearms anywhere, even on person.

John looks around at the room as Sherlock closes the door behind them, "So we're just going to wait here?"

"Much more." He takes the liberty to walk inside and points at a safe, "I can crack this model in ten minutes at the most."

"Had a lot of practice, huh?" John looks at the tall, barely adult Omega in front of him: conman, pickpocket, safecracker, and what not. He wonders what all he is going to see of Sherlock as the night proceeds, no pun intended.

"You could say that," says he as he grabs a pen, sitting down on a stool and peering at his newest puzzle, "Cracked every single one Mycroft ever bought."

John gives out a chuckle and Sherlock makes an inelegant noise that sounds like repressed laughter.

"Back to work."

John watches as Sherlock's eyebrows knit together with concentration, his sure hand dancing over the dial slowly bringing it to rest on the number 32. He writes the number on his palm and sets to work again. After five minutes, he presses a keen ear against the cold metal door to listen for the last tiny, but tell-tale click. Beads of sweat appear along his hairline and trace their way down his forehead. After a few tense seconds, he sits back with a knowing smile. After entering the last number of the combination, Sherlock opens the safe as if it were his own. Inside, sitting regally is what he had been expecting all along: the Heart Of The Ocean.

John's breathing stops for a minute as he takes in the appearance of the large cold blue diamond.

"Brilliant!" They both exclaim at once. Sherlock gives him a brief smile, and John stiffens up, clearing his throat, not sure why he's doing that.

"Now what?"

"We put it back, and we wait for them."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock can never forget that night as he spends it sitting beside John inside Moran's stateroom. They are deadly quiet, none of them make any noise or even acknowledge each other's presence as they sit in wait for the guilty man and his mistress to come in. That wait seems terribly long as they both sit shoulder to shoulder, only at a perfect distance so that their scents don't mingle, and trying their best to ignore the fact that this is a sort of a progress in their courtship in an extremely traditional way: Sherlock sheltering John, whereas he has never progressed with Victor into that territory. He has always taken care not to do anything that even remotely resembles a courtship. Why should he? The marriage and the subsequent Bonding had been inevitable back then, hadn't it?

Sherlock tries not to think about the fact that it is inevitable even now, even as he can feel John's and his scents mixing slightly, and he moves away a bit from the comfortable body heat.

Sherlock can't hear a sound except the roaring of the Atlantic ocean beyond the superstructure of Titanic, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet he knows that John is sitting near him, in the same state of nervous tension in which he himself was there. His Alpha, his mate, a tiny part of his biology screams to him. Sherlock shoos it away inelegantly.

What if they had changed plans, the colonel and Mrs. Wilson? What if this. . . what if that? A lot of what if's cloud his mind. His hearing is becoming more acute as time passes by. Slowly he can hear the occasional call of a steward across the corridor, or that of the waves breaking under the ship. But finally after what seems like eternity, they hear a click and the sound of a key turning inside a lock. Sherlock touches John on the wrist as a signal and as a way to make sure that he hasn't fallen asleep within ten minutes that had passed.

The door closes as the sound of a man's heavy breathing and a woman's heels come from the direction of the exit. There's also the sound of a switch being clicked on as the room instantaneously fills with light. Sherlock springs from his hiding place near the door, taking the two newcomers by surprise and peeling away the veil off her face. There's Jennifer Wilson, looking appalled at Sherlock's knowledge of the events.

The Colonel smirks humourlessly at Sherlock's victorious face, "I suppose you've been following the apparent suicide for some time, haven't you? I must compliment you on your perseverance, Mr. Holmes the younger."

Jennifer Wilson blanches and she rushes inside. John rises from his place, resuming his place beside Sherlock, in case the colonel should attack him. Sherlock is momentarily distracted by that action, but resumes his speech, seeing as it is natural for any Alpha.

Although, not a Alpha who isn't family. And even a friend Alpha will not be so protective of his Omega _friend._

"And I you, Colonel. I must say, the plan was made very beautifully."

"How long have you known?"

"Since I heard that The Heart Of The Ocean was missing."

"Shoot away, then. Impress me."

Sherlock sniggers at his comment, "I don't need to. I've got all the praise I need." He looks at John and smiles. His heart melts at this remark from him.

"It's such a shame," he retorts, "You're so useless as an Omega."

"Not anymore," says he, thinking of John, "come along now, sir. I trust you had the acquaintance of the master-at-arms outside the stateroom." With this, he slips his own key into the lock, causing the colonel to let out a surprised yelp. He had believed that he had Sherlock and John locked inside and at his own convenience. But Sherlock is very thorough.

The colonel slams him against the door, his hand reaching for Sherlock's throat, but before he can do anymore damage to the writhing Omega, John grabs his wrist, twisting it enough to only be a sprain and then knees him in the side. One second later, the colonel is slammed against the door instead of a wide-eyed Sherlock, his arm painfully bent behind his back. John growls for a moment before his brain catches up with his biology and he lets the colonel go with a crude curse, stepping away quickly.

"Don't you dare touch him," John growls angrily, placing himself between Sherlock and the threatening Alpha, trying not to think that Sherlock might end their friendship (courtship, in John's mind) when

But Sherlock is still wide-eyed. John feels an odd sense of satisfaction, which is replaced by the full realisation of what had just transpired. He had just protected Sherlock from a threat, and Sherlock still hadn't said anything against it. He has proved himself capable of protecting his Omega.

But the look on Sherlock's face, he decides never to mention it again, even by apologising. Better to just forget about it. Sherlock is already a claimed—if not traditionally, but bought, still—Omega. John has no right over him, to enforce another courtship over him.

And Sherlock is still saying nothing. Like he's accepted it. John feels nothing except for a giddy sense of joy that has no sense of grace or humility.

The burly master-at-arms marches inside with another young officer, probably his first year as a policeman, finally slapping handcuffs on the wrists made for them as Sherlock opens the door following the colonel's groans, "Mrs. Jennifer Stuart Wilson, I arrest you on the charge of the murder of Miss Deborah Smith, and you, Colonel Moran for assisting her through it."

"Wait a minute!" John cries out, "what about Mr. and Mrs. Wilson?"

The young officer claps his hands in glee, "You mean we'll be making more arrests? Delightful!"

Sherlock gives his best _I'd very much like to murder you_ glare. Seeing this, John cuts in, "Take them, Mr. Bailey. I think we'll come in for the statement tomorrow, won't we Sher—Mr. Holmes?"

"Indeed, Mist—Dr. Watson. Laterz."

Saying this, he exits the cabin with John closely behind. After they've gone quite a distance and reach the poop deck, John finally gives in.

"You told me your theory, but now you've GOT to tell me how you figured it out!"

Sherlock smiles understandingly, "You see, the original plan was the Colonel's idea, which he fed into Jennifer Wilson's mind and which they both fed into her family's heads. I already told you that Mr. Wilson was going into recession. Hence, he'd do almost anything for money. So, if somehow, Jennifer Wilson were to slip off accidentally into the waters _along_ with The Heart Of The Ocean with a considerable number of half-asleep and completely brainless eyewitnesses watching the incident, the family could claim the insurance money for her life and for the diamond as well, thus letting them stay afloat for the rest of their lives.

"And they don't get to really lose the diamond as well. I understood that the husband was also involved. When you were about to check Mrs. Wilson's body, he talked in negative, asked you to tell her that 'she isn't dead'. A regular husband would ask you to tell him that 'she's alive'. People's minds work that way. He knew that his wife had faked her death. So far?"

John nods, showing that he understood. He does not lose Sherlock now. He catches along with his speed, as if he has always been used to it.

"You see, the family were playing their part when they were asking for the Heart Of The Ocean, whether it was gone. I told you about their behaviour. The mother was a beautiful actress. She acted just like you could expect an upper class mother-in-law to react. It's the husband who gave it all away. So, lady shows their family heirloom to everyone in the reception hall, then jumps to her apparent death. Must be a brave woman, doing all that by herself with only one accomplice, one of their maids Maude. I applaud her nerves.

"Anyway, she sees the opportune moment and jumps. Probably a sort of rope tied around her waist. She gets to the A-deck rail aft, which is quite deserted as all the people are inside, enjoying the dinner party, cuts the rope just as the maid helps her with the body of Miss Deborah Smith, their other maid. This was the one link I was missing which you provided me with. Since everyone needed to see and haul out a body, they provided them with one. They threw Miss Smith over and as those donkeys looked on, they saw the lady plunging into the water—"

"I know that. You told me. I'm asking you how you figured it out. The clues!"

Sherlock lets out an exaggerated sigh, "Why? First, it was the mysterious disappearance of the necklace. I saw that it was apparent suicide. But no one ever commits suicide like that, with the jewel around their necks. You may recount my example on that. I had myself flung this away," he shows John his engagement ring, "before I ran to jump off. Even though I'm not a very sentimental person, I am averse to wasting things."

You don't say, John thinks automatically. The clues now come to him, and the missing pieces fitting into one large picture. He beams at the utter devilry of the plan.

"And then the dead body itself. She had Jennifer Wilson's face on, an outcome that can clearly be achieved by surgery as you told me when we were visiting the master-at-arms' cabin. Now, such a surgery must be done for a very specific purpose. Taking in the cost and the knowledge of Mr. Wilson's economic state, murder is ruled out and a bigger picture comes in. What? Something that gave them millions in exchange for thousands.

"And how did I know that dead woman wasn't Jennifer Wilson? Simple. You said that Jennifer Wilson was supposed to be dead hours ago, didn't you? But she did show up at the dinner party. Despite what you say, some people do have faith in your medical abilities, John."

John's seyes narrow. The silence isn't that of finality. He peers into Sherlock's eyes until the latter gives in, "Alright, I really didn't _singlehandedly_  rely on your medical expertise. The evidence was right under your nose, quite literally in fact! You see but you don't observe. I told you that she wears too much makeup to hide her bruises."

"Yes."

"Well, if it was she who was in the water, the makeup would've been washed away, won't it? And then you would've seen them, right? But they weren't there. But I think that," says he delightedly, "The best part was Jennifer Wilson's plan to cheat her family and run away with Colonel Moran and then Colonel Moran's plan to take the money and run away. Family cons insurance company. Dead wife cons family. Dead wife's paramour cons her. Splendid, don't you think?"

John chortles at that twisted sense of humour. The two of them lean against the rail, relaxing after a very hefty evening. But it isn't yet over. An idea strikes John and this time he grabs Sherlock's hand, his fingers fitting between the spaces of his perfectly. He knows it isn't appropriate, but he doesn't care. For tonight, he can always pretend that they're still courting and that they're allowed such acts. Sherlock looks at their linked hands in surprise.

"Come away with me," says John, extending his arm towards Sherlock—palm facing the Omega, an unmistakeable invitation.

"Where?"

"You deserve this. You gave me an evening in the first class dining saloon where people liked and hated me in equal amounts and a very much action-packed evening after that. You brought justice to the killers of the Wilsons' maid. This is all I have to offer you as a 'thank you'."

Sherlock still can't understand what John wants to offer him, "John. . . you don't have to thank me—"

"Shut up, you git!" Even the most rude thing he says is dipped in warmth, and then he apologises like a traditional Alpha, afraid that he offended the Omega he's apparently courting, even though he's too dense to realise it, Sherlock thinks wistfully, "I didn't mean that. But you are coming with me, Sherlock! I've watched you the whole day and it's like you've never. . . No. You, sir, are coming with me to the party!"

Sherlock snorts, "You think I want to go back to Andrea and Lucille and discuss with them the latest designs in _La Mode Illustrée_ —?"

John gives out a laugh and a warm shiver goes through Sherlock's spine, "What have they done to you to call such a boring thing a party? No, I meant the party in the Third Class General Room! Your idea of fun is stealing others' wallets and replacing them back! You need to have some real fun."

Sherlock looks mildly surprised while his eyes shine with true excitement at the prospect of going to the world he has never had set his eyes upon. He nods, strengthening his grip on John's hand. The sight is quite endearing and John can't help but smile at him goofily.

"Come on, then," he tugs at his hand, "It's ten-thirty. They stay up till twelve. I'll show you what a real party is!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And before you ask me, yes, the Titanic did have a hospital, and quite amusingly, it was located on the same floor as the First Class Dining Saloon, though not directly accessible.
> 
> Credit for fishing Titanic facts goes to magnificenttitanic on tumblr.


	6. Celebration Time

Crowd is led and alive with music, laughter and chaos carrying on in The Third Class General Room. An ad hoc band is gathered near the upright piano, honking out lively stomping music on fiddle, accordion and tambourine. People of all ages are dancing, drinking beer and wine, smoking, laughing, even brawling. 10 o'clock is the curfew for the third class passengers, but no one pays any heed to the stewards who come to argue with them. Some of them even join the celebration, dancing with whatever girl they can get for themselves.

Sherlock has never seen such vivacity before. His eyes sparkle as countless people in the Third Class General Room present themselves as subjects for his deductions. His mind has never felt so exhilarated as he soaks in the onslaught of information. Everyone in the room has their own story to tell. Sherlock had seen that when he had entered the General Room earlier that morning, but then his mind had been preoccupied. But now. . . it was just so overwhelming.

So this was what his brother termed as the nether land, the world under their feet. Doesn't look like they're under anybody's feet, the way they're celebrating, dancing, being joyful just for the sake of  being joyful, of getting to spend another luxurious day on the largest man-made moving object on Earth.

_Two brothers, was a fisherman, youngest son is a shoeshine, stowaway from Cherbourg. . ._

_Swedish, miner, chimney sweep, stayed in London for three years maximum. . ._

John notices his face and claps him lightly on the shoulder, "No thinking now. We're at a party!"

His one hand is still entangled in that of John's as he leads him around the dancing men and women. The electric sensation prickling his skin is all too much. It's new, exciting and somewhat frightening. Sherlock has to fight against all instincts to keep their fingers entangled. He profoundly doesn't care if anyone gets the wrong idea.

People seem to remember him as they openly point at him and talk. Sherlock does not really mind as turns his head away. John comes near Mike and the two Swedes, who stands up at the sight of an Omega and does a very lousy imitation of a gentleman's bow, making the corner of his lip twitch upwards in amusement.

"Mike, Sherlock. Sherlock, Mike, my mate," John shouts the introduction above all the noise.

Mike extends his hand towards Sherlock, expecting a handshake but John simply shakes his head, motioning sneakily at him to kiss his hand, just like he had learnt during the evening. Sherlock notices this and glares at John, as if only John has right to do so. Mike watches the two of them with some mirth and then goes in for the handshake instead.

The song ends and everybody applauds the band. They beam and cheer loudly.

"Bravo! Bravo! Let's hear some more!"

"Thank you! Thank you all!"

Meanwhile Greg and Molly come to their table, sweating profusely from all the dancing. Molly looks very pretty in a plain black high-collared rag blouse with a embroidered red shawl and a long flowing red skirt. They recognise Sherlock at once. "Oh, look who we have here!" says Greg, "Hello squire!" He extends his hand to him, expecting to kiss Sherlock's hand. But Sherlock simply smirks at the sight of Molly's arm around that of Greg tighten. Meanwhile John cuts in, "Go dance with Molly, will you?"

His smile widens at the thought of John fighting for his territory. Tries to dismiss it away as only Alpha instincts towards any Omega and not a part of courting. The next song starts and Greg and Molly shoot away.

"Is it alright if I put my hand here, love?" he asks her cheekily, placing his hand on the small of her back upon seeing that the next song is more upbeat. She nods excitedly and they rush away, picking up the momentum.

"Mr. Watson! Mr. Watson!" comes up the little girl Cora in her squeaky voice. Sherlock watches their exchange fondly as John smiles kindly at her and bends down to her height, "Cora dear, you should be in bed and not here with all the booze-" he stops himself before he can say any more inappropriate things.

She says something that John does not understand, but which makes Sherlock burst out with laughter.

"What?!" he extends his ear to her. She almost shouts, but he still can't understand her. Sherlock plops down on a chair with Mike and pulls John down to him, "She's saying that she sneaked out of her bed and came here."

"Oh!" John and Mike laugh out loud too, "Such a mischievous girl!"

She pulls John down again and this time he understands her, "You want me to dance with you?"

She nods excitedly and then points at Sherlock. He raises his eyebrows in slight uncertainty as John smiles, "Oh, you want to dance with him too?"

She nods again, flashing her little teeth. Mike looks faux-offended.

"Why not me?"

She pulls down John again. This time all three of them are anxious about what she has to say. John escapes into silent giggles.

"What?!" They both ask together.

"She does not want heavy Mr. Stamford to step on her feet!"

Now Mike is really offended, "Bugger off!"

"Mike, for God's sake. She's a kid!" Mike mumbles something incoherent to that, followed by, "Come on, Sherlock. I'll get you some drinks. But no wine, alright?"

"Don't need any," he smirks at him, "had plenty of that rubbish upstairs."

"God, that violinist is terrible!" says Mike as he saunters off. This suddenly gives Sherlock an idea. He stands up and goes to the playing band, to girl who's playing the fiddle.

"May I cut in, miss?"

She smiles kindly and surrenders it over to him, curtseying low. He looks at the band and the rest of the people, including John. They're all anxious about what he's going to play, and whether it's going to be good or not, or simply dreadful classical screeching like his clothes promise it to be. But he simply barks at the tambourine player, who has never seen an Omega before, "Set the rhythm, man! Have you dropped dead?"

People chortle around him, some out of surprise, others out of the embarrassment colouring the tambourine player's cheeks red, "Sorry, squire."

Sherlock picks up the lively tune beautifully, playing along with whatever gypsy melody comes to his mind. And it's damn good. The band picks up after him. Everyone goes back to dancing. John gapes at him, mouth slightly open in awe at the sight of Sherlock playing the fast-paced tune. He updates Sherlock's profile in his mind: conman, pickpocket, safecracker, violinist. Cora tugs at his sleeve to draw his attention back to her and Sherlock beams at him as John starts dancing with Cora, or tries to, with her standing on his feet.

Sherlock is not used to playing such lively music, but his enthusiasm and his happy mood serves to make the tune like that. It does feel good to bring so many smiles on everyone's faces all at once, but mostly on John's face. He enjoys himself more than he has ever done during all other times in his life put together.

The tune ends and everyone applauds extra loud as Sherlock bows to everyone in a gesture of 'thank you' before resuming his seat. Mike leaves his place to get some more drinks for Sherlock as Greg and Molly are back again, holding hands. She looks back to see her sister calling to her. Greg looks at her sadly.

"Within a few minutes," she promises, and gives him a little peck on his cheek, surprising everyone at the table. She darts away, very red in her face as Greg stares after her, smiling like an idiot. The men at the table whistle loudly at him, grunting in appreciation. They even clap him on his shoulder for being the first among them to land a good-looking girl. Sherlock watches the whole episode while draining Mike's glass completely in one sip.

"Bloody hell," Mike stares at Sherlock with his mouth agape, "that was fast!"

"It was, wasn't it?" says Greg, his fingers trailing over where she had kissed him.

"Dricka konkurrens va, kompis?"  _Drinking competition huh, mate?_  says the Swedish challengingly, upon seeing Sherlock's ability to drain the entire volume in one sip. But Sherlock does not know Swedish.

"What?"

The Swede shouts in his ear, "Dricka konkurrens va, kompis?" again. Although he does not understand it, he somehow gets the idea and agrees, "You can't beat me!" says he, all societal norms forgotten.

"Skräp!"  _Rubbish_. He shouts and gathers his friends, who cheer him loudly. Sherlock sticks out his tongue, "You're going down!"

"No!" Mike groans. He is the one who has to work overtime and bring everyone drinks whenever there's a drinking competition.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" They all chant. Sherlock joins in, his eyes often finding their way back to John dancing with the little girl. John is nice with children, he thinks. Not that it should matter.

Mike gives in, complaining loudly to anyone who cared to listen. Most Alphas look surprised to see an Omega drink and smoke with them, but they get over it quite quickly.

"Alright, men!" A young Irish comes up, acting as the coordinator, "No less than ten. Three, two, one, go!"

Sherlock and Bjorn, the other Swede drown pint after pint. It is only a matter of minutes till John arrives at the scene to find Sherlock on the verge of being smashed and making the whole party laugh at his scandalous deductions about other passengers who are dancing at a distance. He's a hit with the steerage folks, who've never had such a fun Omega party with them. Despite being Alphas, the whole lot of them treat him with respect and reverence instead of as an object of lust, something that Sherlock has never experienced since his teenage years.

"And what about 'im?" says the Irish fellow, pointing at a large man playing the accordion.

Sherlock crinkles his nose at that man, "Has had two wives. Last one ran away with a Beta," everyone laughs at the insinuation of a woman leaving an Alpha for a Beta, "Worked in circus for some time. Erectile dysfunction."

John now sees that it's time to get Sherlock out of there.

"Alright, that's enough," he takes Sherlock's hand and drags him up, "You're coming with me. Thanks gents!"

"No. . ." Sherlock frowns, looking quite confused, "But we haven't finished the game yet!"

"Yes, you have. You won, didn't you hear?"

His face breaks into a dreamy smile, "I did, didn't I?" and he sticks out his tongue to Bjorn for the second time, "Told ya. No one can beat me!"

The men at the table begin to argue, but John and Sherlock run away before they can say much. They return to Cora. Fortunately, Sherlock is sober enough to talk properly to her, but not enough to dance with her.

"I'm tired, Mr. Watson," says she with a yawn, "I'll dance with Mr. Holmes tomorrow."

John smiles and pats her cheek lightly, "That's a good girl. Now, you go to the ladies over there. I'm gonna dance with him, alright?"

Cora scampers off. John glances at Sherlock surreptitiously, and then takes a long drag of cigarette to boost his confidence. Takes a step forward, and then two steps behind and then just goes ahead and blurts it out—

"Do you want to d. . . drink some more?"

Sherlock smiles a lazy smile that John has never had the fortune to see on his face, "Are you trying to get me drunk, _Doctor_?"

"Do you think you need any more to get you drunk, Sherlock?" John examines amusedly.

"Hmm," Sherlock hums, "as for your real question—yes, I'll dance with you—even though I really do not know how to dance like . . . " he waves around at people in general, "in the first place."

But John simply laughs—more in nervousness of the magnitude of what they'd be doing than in relief, "Neither do I. But it can't be much difficult for someone as brainy as you, yeah?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes before hauling himself to his feet. He isn't as unsteady as John thought he might be. But when he stands up, he looks a little intimidated.

"John—" is all he whispers, and even among the shouting of the third class, somehow Sherlock's voice is still audible, as if it is the centre of John's universe.

They face each other. John is a little unsure as he takes his right hand in his left. His other hand slides to the small of Sherlock's back even though John is the shorter one. It is an electrifying moment as they come very close to each other, their chests almost touching. John can't help but inhale his intoxicating whiff and summons all the confidence in the world before pulling Sherlock towards him gently, so that he doesn't cause the Omega to give up and storm away. The scent of him has gotten far stronger since the morning—and far more richer.

"Just move with me. Don't think."

The music starts and they are off. A little awkward at first as John has never danced with someone taller than him and because Sherlock has never danced with a partner shorter than him—if one doesn't count Victor. But then they start to get into it. He grins at John as he starts to get the rhythm of the steps.

"Wait. . . stop!"

John stops for a moment as Sherlock takes off his suit jacket while undoing the collar and the shirt cuffs. Then he grabs John and they plunge back into the fray, dancing faster as the music speeds up.

Sherlock closes his eyes as they go along with the music, holding onto John, almost crashing into everyone. The scene is rowdy and rollicking. A table gets knocked over as a drunk crashes into it. And in the middle of it. . . Sherlock dances with John, eyes still closed and heart pumping with elation. The steps are fast and they both shine with sweat. A space opens around them, and people watch them, clapping as the band plays faster and faster.

"This isn't even dancing!" Sherlock yells and half-laughs, "This is jumping around! Like rabbits!"

"I told you! Stop thinking!"

Suddenly John spots Greg and Molly getting up on a platform. Dancing has eliminated the need for verbal communication. She does not have to stutter while talking. He whirls her, then she responds by whirling him. . . Greg's eyes go wide when he realizes she's stronger than he is.

"Hey, look," John points at them and they both stumble onto the platform as well. Sherlock carefully observes John's feet tapping in perfect rhythm with the music.

"Your go," he says to Sherlock, who is no less as he too taps his feet like John, giving him a challenging look. John claps along with the others now that Sherlock knows how to dance like them. They laugh at each other's successes as Sherlock grabs his right arm and they just go around in circles like small children. Sherlock shouts in giddy joy. He has never felt so free, so alive before, not even when he had run away from his house. That time, he was very alone, but now he had John, even if only for five more days.

John pulls his closer as they just tap their feet on the floor—and then John's laughing, and Sherlock can't help but laugh along with him too—and then everyone's laughing and everyone's spinning and dancing around them and they're just hidden in their own small circle and he's so _close_ to John, his heart so close to his own, he couldn't be any closer in public to another person—let alone an Alpha, and that too without a chaperone and it's the single best feeling both of them have ever felt, culminating to the point where John would lead them in the oldest dance known to man, their bodies and souls merging into one entity of pure sensation—

The tune ends in a mad rush. Realising that they both had been having similar thoughts about each other, they step away from each other and John breaks apart from his proximity to Sherlock with a flourish, allowing him to take a bow. Exhilarated and slightly tipsy, Sherlock grabs Mike's hat and does a graceful curtain call bow as everyone laughs and applauds at all the young couples.

They move to a table, flushed and sweaty. Sherlock grabs Bjorn's cigarette and takes a big drag. He's feeling cocky. Greg is grinning, holding hands with Molly. Suddenly, he's challenged into an arm wrestling contest by Olaus, the other Swede. Greg looks quite scared but prepares to go in, because it's in front of Molly that they have challenged him. Sherlock leans down and mumbles something into Greg's ear before he can take the chair. John looks at him curiously as Greg's face brightens up.

"You can't win!" He sneers at the big Swedish man, who only laughs at him.

"What did you tell him?" John asks Sherlock as he lights a cigarette and winks at John, "To wait for the opportune moment."

"Yeah man, come on!" Mike cheers both of them and clasps both his hands around theirs. “One, two, three!” He lets go.

The competition is not very tough. Greg appears to be losing to him from the start itself. The Swede grows cocky as he hears his friends' cheers. Greg screws up his face, deriving his strength from Molly's cheers as he tries hard to snap Olaus' wrist down with a sudden burst of strength but he fails every time. Just when Sherlock sees that he's seconds away from losing, he inserts the cigarette between Greg's lips. Greg takes a long drag and blows all the smoke into Olaus' face. In a moment of weakness, the back of his hand collides with the tabletop, making Greg the winner.

"Whoa, ho!" John cries out triumphantly, "that was bloody clever!"

Greg jumps up with joy. People look at him like he is their new hero because no one has ever beaten Olaus. Molly runs into his arms and hugs him tightly. The Swede is still coughing.

"Fuskare! Bedragare!" he shouts.  _Cheater_. _Deceiver_.

"You think you're big, tough Alphas?" Sherlock teases, "Brains before brawn, you moron!"

And then all in Olaus' gang realize that Sherlock is the mischief maker. Before they can teach him a good lesson, all Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics forgotten, Sherlock grabs John's hand and they run away from there. They laugh merrily and come out on the boat deck.

"That was crazy!" John remarks with a hiccup.

"I know, but it was fun!"

The stars blaze overhead, so bright and clear that one can see the Milky Way. Sherlock and John walk along the row of lifeboats. Still giddy from excitement, they are both humming a tune which neither of them recognises. It just is a reflection on how happy Sherlock feels as his fingers are entangled in those of John's. It's almost twelve, way past the ten o'clock curfew on the third class passengers, but no one seemed to care. It was her maiden voyage after all. Everybody had a reason to celebrate.

They fumble the tune and break down laughing. They have reached the First Class Entrance, but don't go straight in, not wanting the evening to end. Through the doors the sound of the ship's orchestra wafts gently. Everyone wants to bathe in Titanic's luxuries for as long as possible.

"I've never felt so. . ." Sherlock exclaims breathlessly, "so. . . I've never had anything—anything doing _that_ to me that way—"

John simply gazes at him. Sherlock's scent floods his nose, his entire body. It's starting to become strong. Stronger than what it was in the party.

"You're very strange, you know. You're a doctor. . ."

"I'm not—"

"No," Sherlock insists, "You are. Or will be one day. Dr. John Watson, it has that certain ring to it. You're a doctor, and you still smoke."

John frowns, "Doctors can't smoke?"

"Nothing like that. I mean, you're supposed to be health conscious, aren't you?"

He gives a terse laugh, "Like you're oh-so-conscious."

Sherlock chuckles and grabs a davit, leaning back and staring at the cosmos. John follows his gaze and back at him, taking in his odour again. Sherlock is stunning, he notes for the umpteenth time, but what is priceless is what lay inside him: his pure heart, his great brain, the madness buried inside and his unconsciously kind nature, and something else, something unnamed. He does not take his hand away while he lets his gaze roam across his deliciously exposed neck. He rubs over his thumb, making him sigh contentedly. Sherlock looks down at their hands, and retracts his away. John lets him, the curve of his lips inverting in disappointment.

"You know. . ." says he, going to the rail and leaning against it, "my Father. . . he never let me complete school. Mycroft once rebelled against it. . . just once, and then he. . . dropped the topic altogether. . . He thought he could conceal it, but. . . I saw two clear cigar marks on his wrist. . ."

John leans on the rail next to him, his hand just touching his. It is the slightest contact imaginable, and all either one of them can feel is that square inch of skin where their hands are touching. This time Sherlock does not remove his hand, and neither does John. Sherlock's skin feels feverish, or maybe it was just how John was feeling at the moment. It is soft, almost raw in the face of the heat emanating from him. If only a square inch of contact felt so good, then. . .

"You were brilliant this evening."

John must have told him that a million times, but this is the first time that Sherlock has had time to acknowledge it. He gives him a lopsided smile, which is mostly hopeful, "You think?"

He turns to face the Omega and sees it. Sherlock was not made for the life he led and would lead if he married Victor. He was meant to be a free bird, Omega or not. He was not private property, he was not ought to be so. Suddenly he wishes that Sherlock had never met Victor Trevor, or that he had never been born an Omega at all.

But it did matter to John. It did matter that he was an Omega. More so, an Unbonded Omega.

"I think," John says quietly, now fully sober, "that you should've been a detective."

Somehow, Sherlock finds that idea extremely hilarious as he bursts out laughing, "Detective?! You think I'd be allowed that?"

"You don't have to be allowed. It's your choice, not Mycroft's or Victor's."

John has little clue that free will is something that does not exist in any Omega's, and therefore Sherlock's, dictionary. Sherlock looks away, "I got mailed to the wrong address, didn't I?"

"Uh huh. You're not one of them. There's been a mistake."

Changing the subject completely, Sherlock points at the night sky, his eyes twinkling with fascination, "So beautiful, isn't it?"

John looks up. He wonders whether Sherlock's fascination with the outer space stemmed from his great need to escape the suffocating chains of his impending marriage, or maybe just the beauty of it all. Sherlock isn't sentimental, he reminds himself. He recognises some stars twinkling at him, some he doesn't.

"That one," he points to the brightest one, "is Sirius, Dog Star. Brightest star from Earth."

Sherlock nods. He finds the information pointless, but he still listens, seeing as he could listen to John's voice because of that.

"And those three stars, following up from Sirius, form the belt of Orion, The Hunter."

"I've heard of the myth."

"Taught you that in finishing school, huh?"

Sherlock guffaws, "Right."

"You wanted to learn about stars?"

Sherlock frowns, "No. Lord, no!" causing John to wonder why he had listened to him. "How do you know so much about them anyway?" Sherlock asks.

John grimaces as he finds himself recalling the memory. It was a rainy night. Sarah had gone to buy some bread off whatever they had managed for the day. The bakery boys had packed the bread in a page out of an astronomy textbook. They had spent the night memorising some of the stars. John and Sarah had even vowed that they would spot some once they got some clear skies.

It was also the night on which she got pneumonia and died two days later.

And now, years later, he finds himself pointing out those stars to Sherlock. He can almost see Sarah's sweet face smiling at him from the Heavens above. She wouldn't want him living in the past now that he had Sherlock.

"Look," John suddenly points at the sky, "It's a shooting star! My father used to say that whenever you saw one, it was a soul going to heaven."

He can almost feel Sherlock rolling his eyes, "It's only a meteoroid, John," he states scholarly, "Despite my efforts to the contrary, I do have some elementary knowledge of astronomy."

"Sherlock, it'll go away!" he urges him, "Quickly, wish for something!"

He looks up. To his dismay, it's gone. His only hope for freedom, however bleak, is gone.

"What did you wish for?" he asks John, still looking up at the night sky.

"Nothing much," he lies, "Just. . . keep the ship and all the people safe and happy. What would you have wished for?"

Sherlock turns to look at him, and John finds that they are suddenly very close together. It would be so easy to move another couple of inches, close all distance, embed his own scent into Sherlock's and end their courting, trigger the Estrus—all stupid, but necessary Alpha instincts. Sherlock seems to be thinking the same thing. His eyes momentarily fly to John's lips and then down at their feet.

After a beat, Sherlock pulls back.

"Something I can never have," he gives him a tight-lipped smile, "Goodnight, John. And thank you for the evening. I trust you not to reveal to anyone about—our time together."

He leaves the rail and walks through the First Class Entrance. It's only logical, he tells himself.

John is dismayed beyond belief, "Sherlock!!!" he calls after him, wondering what was it that he did wrong.

But the door bangs shut, and he is gone. Back to his empty world full of showy opulence. Back to be taken to America in chains.


	7. In Throes

John stares after the tall figure retreating back to the all-consuming vortex from which he had managed to pull him out that evening.

Why did Sherlock not understand, in spite of being so brilliant? Why did he not understand that he was being pulled down, put down by the manacles of marriage and bonding? It was simple enough, he just had to say no. What was the worst that could happen if he said no to them? Mycroft did not seem like a complete arse. He stood up for his brother.

Arse. John recalls the way Mycroft had looked upon him during the evening. They were such small people, thinking that they were giants on the earth, when they were not even dust in God's eye, simply living inside this tiny little champagne bubble. . . and someday the bubble would burst and they'd pass into nothingness. And Sherlock, oh dear Lord. John shuddered to think about what would happen to him when that bubble burst.

Why could he not see?

He looks down at his hand, one end of his lip twitching in dejection. He traces his finger over the skin where it last made contact with Sherlock. He understands slowly that it is nothing that he has done wrong. Sherlock had enjoyed the evening thoroughly. He had played, laughed, danced, tricked others. He did new things, things he had never done. He had said that it was fun.

John wears the jacket back as the cold attacks him again. He hadn't needed it until now. He starts walking back to his own modest cubicle.

He looks down at his suit. It wasn't ruined much, except the stink of ale and sweat. He'd have to wash it and return it to Molly Brown the next day. He could request the stewards for some iron and starch perhaps.

But more importantly, he would have to find Sherlock and make him see. . .

John stops when he sees a tall brunette woman in a stunning black and red silk dinner dress watching him. Curious, he approaches her and stiffens when she smiles pleasantly at him. He remembers having seen her somewhere.

"Hello, Mr. Watson," her voice is smooth and rich.

John casts an eye over her. She is beautiful, her low-cut dress showing off her neck and shoulders, her arms sheathed in white gloves that come well above the elbow. She looks like royalty with jewels embedded in her hair. He cannot recall where he has seen her, but that does not stop him from saying hello to her as well.

"Hello, there."

Might be anyone, he muses, could have been someone from the dinner party. He tries his hand at deducing something about her, just like Sherlock had taught him.

She takes his arm and they start walking, or rather she leads him to where _she_ wants him to go.

"So, what's you name then?"

"Uh. . . Anthea," she responds, still smiling and unnerving him.

"Right, is that even your real name?" He gets this intuition somehow.

"No."

John turns to look at her again and withdraws his arm back, "Wait, I know you! You were sitting there at the table in the dinner party with us, near. . . Mycroft."

"Hmm. . . you've got quite an eye, Mr. Watson. Shall we walk?"

John does not answer and simply walks away. He does not see two stewards passing him. He does not see Andrea giving both of them a fiver and a cloth which she removes from her purse. Suddenly, John feels a large white cloth on his face smothering him. The smell of chloroform breaks out somewhere and he passes into oblivion.

 

* * *

 

A slight tapping of a heavy stick awakens John. He peers through his half-closed eyelids. It's not a stick, but an umbrella.

"How're you feeling, Mr. Watson?" comes an icy voice from somewhere near his ear. Even through his dulled senses, John knows that it is Mycroft. He sits up rather clumsily. Mycroft's huge figure looms over him.

"Like throwing a punch to your gut."

"No need for language, Mr. Watson," Mycroft settles down in a wooden chair in front of him. John looks around him. He has never been in this part of the ship before. An Edwardian gymnasium. There are machines he recognizes from certain commercials, and some he doesn't.

To his surprise, his hands and feet are quite free. Mycroft smiles imperturbably at his confusion. John's gaze rests on Andrea standing next to him, watching the two men.

"Why not? You drugged me! I would have gone with you if you wanted a chat."

"I want more than only a chat. I see that my brother has spent the day rather... _meaningfully_ with you, in his opinion at least."

John gives a strained laugh, "Oh, so she works for you. Or was it that undertaker of a manservant?"

"Mr. Watson," he continues in the same icy voice, ignoring his comments and fixing him with a reproaching chin down stare, "You do know that Sherlock is engaged to Mr. Trevor."

John nods, seeing where the conversation was going to lead.

"And you, sir, are forcing yourself upon—"

"I'm not forcing myself upon him!" he bellows.

"I don't think that _this_ can be called anything else," Mycroft reaches for something inside the pocket of his suit-jacket. A cheque-book and a pen, "I thought I might need this. Any figure you mention, Mr. Watson. I'll be happy to pay you a regular amount on the condition that you stay away from my brother."

"I don't need your money," says he decisively. He had half-a-mind to persuade Mycroft to let Sherlock do whatever he wanted to do in life, but now it is clear to him that it is not going to make him see any sense.

Mycroft looks slightly surprised, "You're very loyal, Mr. Watson. Very quickly. Not everyone can thwart off her," he indicates to Andrea, "and this at the same time," he indicates to his cheque-book.

"Well, not everyone you've met is a complete and immoral bastard!"

"My brother is nothing but a child," Mycroft rises from his chair and looks out of a window. There's no one there, and this sends a bout of worry through John. His face is almost painful to look at, "You must be knowing that as much as I do, having spent the evening with him. He is immature and foolish," John's blood boils when he hears that brilliant man being described as 'foolish', "He has his own sense of right and wrong. And unfortunately, having never been exposed to the class of people you belong to. . . he doesn't know how to conduct himself—"

"If he's a child," John manages a sharp intake of breath, "Then why're you getting him married? He should get to do what—"

John stops when he sees the terrible look on Mycroft's face. Cold fury emanates from him as he half-turns towards the man lying between him and the supposedly better life he has decided for Sherlock. He smiles, a collection of wrinkles and red eyes. He knows he has spoken too much, but it's the only way.

"I'll say no more, Mr. Watson. You're an intelligent man and you should know that if you even glance at my brother, I shall have your eyes for that."

John has nothing to say to that. Except for one last thing, but he is interrupted before he could say any further.

"Good, now that we have it settled, I'd like a cup of tea. Goodnight, Mr. Watson. And may I never see you around my brother anymore."

With that, Andrea took his arm and they were both out of sight, leaving John even more resolute.

 

* * *

 

Saturday, April 13th, 1912 8:27 am

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson tries to wake up the young man covered in sweat, "Sherlock dear, wake up!"

Sherlock wakes up with a start, earning a small gasp of shock at his sudden rise. She has been trying to wake him up for almost half-an-hour, and when he wakes up all of a sudden, she is bound to get scared. He covers his bare chest by his duvet as Mrs. Hudson averts her eyes. There is a slight change in the environment, a certain something that he cannot place his finger upon, but Mrs. Hudson isn't saying anything about it, considering that she's fairly aware of such things otherwise. It's odd but fortunately, it fades away as the opulence of the bedroom comes into the view. He scrunches his face against the sunlight filtering in through the window that opens into the promenade. He pulls his shirt and his dressing gown over his shoulders as she goes on about how wonderful the ship was with her back towards him. She could be a headache sometimes.

"Mrs. Hudson, could you just. . . leave?"

She looks a little puzzled. Sherlock has never asked her to just leave, and never as polite as he's being now. But she acquiesces anyway.

"Yes dear."

He thanks every power in the world which stopped him from consuming staggering amounts of ale like the others in the Third Class party. He remembers the party and the dance with a small smile touching the edge of his lips. He remembers Greg defeating Olaus in arm-wrestling and Molly hugging him with surprising strength. He remembers John, unintentionally, or perhaps a little intentionally, weaving his scent with his own as they danced. If only he had gone too far, Sherlock thinks, John might have ended up scenting him and triggering a pseudo-Estrus. Lastly, he remembers talking about being a detective and stargazing with John.

It might have been his last time with John Watson. They may never see each other again. Sherlock had wanted to say something, a farewell, a last grateful word, maybe stolen one first (and the last) kiss.

All that is in the past now. He isn't sure what John sees him as, apart from mind and being a detective. Helpless? Needy? Damsel in distress? John is a caretaker and protector by nature. Perhaps he only sees someone in the need of salvaging. Nothing else, perhaps. John wouldn't even have wanted to kiss him. He is already betrothed.

There's a peculiar twinge between his legs—but he ignores it. It happens sometimes. He doesn't need to be reminded of his gender again and again.

His gaze falls on the violin lying on the armchair. He walks up to it and settles down on the chair, tuning the instrument to perfection, staring at the mirror and hating himself for his cowardly actions the previous night. He is scared, scared of what John and he could have, scared of what Mycroft and, more worryingly, Victor would do, and yet he does not want to admit it to himself. He remembers John's confused face from the previous night and loathes himself for having left him. . .

"Sherlock!" comes Mrs. Hudson's voice, half-worried, "Your fiancé expects you for breakfast."

Sherlock does not reply. He knows what was coming. Victor had high hopes for yesterday night etcetera—

"Sherlock!" she grabs his shoulder, "Grab some proper clothes and go."

He turns to looks at her. She looks worried, there are dark circles under her eyes, something that weren't there some moments ago. He nods and gets up, washing his face and unwillingly letting Mrs. Hudson comb his hair into something more suitable.

It's a bright clear day, sunlight splashing across the promenade as Sherlock settles down in the divan in front of Victor. The latter sips his coffee, and his eyes go wide as Sherlock approaches. Sherlock has been on the receiving end of that look only once, the yesterday evening.

Mrs. Hudson arrives, pouring some coffee for Sherlock. When he raises his head, Victor is almost gawking at him. He clears his throat and they continue their breakfast in silence, that is, until Victor decides that he has had enough. He waits till Mrs. Hudson leaves and then—

"I had hoped," Sherlock's head shoots up at that, "you would come to me last night."

Sherlock does not risk an involuntary exasperated sigh at that, "I was tired."

"Of course," he smiles, "I should have seen that coming. Except I could discern late night brooding and pacing from your room, dear. But you were simply. . . tired, I suppose."

Sherlock straightens up, "What are you trying to imply?"

"The master-at-arms came looking for a certain Mr. Holmes this morning. He mentioned something about a statement and a doctor's declaration, and specifically about a certain Dr. Watson. Now, Mycroft was with me the whole time and I cannot imagine any other Mr. Holmes travelling on the ship. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you sweetpea?"

Sherlock looks him in the eye almost unnervingly, a skill that the elder Holmes had passed on to both the brothers. But Victor isn't affected in the slightest. He smiles away inscrutably, "You shall remain confined to your quarters today, Sherlock-"

"What?!"

"I trust you to know what has happened. You cannot go out in this state. You shall remain confined to your quarters, seeing as it would provide a double purpose—"

"I'm not some slave in your mines than you can command!" he snaps. Victor is not very surprised to hear the tone of his voice, "I am your fiancée, and I at least have the right to choose for myself when I'm not disinclined to tour the ship as I please."

"My fiancée?" he sneers as if he finds the idea almost comical. He crosses his legs and sips his coffee calmly. The one thing terrifying about Victor Trevor is that he is a cool, completely-in-charge man.

"Sometimes I wonder. But I'm not here to recount your. . . _pleasant_ evening with Watson," he almost spits the name. His voice is soft and tender for someone hearing it for the first time, but underneath, only Sherlock knows that he is trembling with fury, "I'm here to tell you what you are going to do. You'll stay here, in your room. I will have Mr. Gregson posted outside, and _anybody_ who wishes your presence will be informed that you are indisposed for the day—"

"You are _absolutely_ not going to do that!" Sherlock explodes, sweeping the breakfast china off the table with a crash. He moves to Victor in one shocking moment, glowering over him and gripping the sides of his chair, so that Victor is trapped between his arms. Fury has never been so prominent in his veins. He has never had an angry outburst before. But it still has no effect on Victor. He does not even back away. He sits there vacantly, a master of emotional paralysis, watching him with an amused smile on his face which only widens as moments pass by.

Sherlock turns to see Mrs. Hudson, frozen, partway through the door, bringing the orange juice. Victor follows his glance and straightens up in his chair, "Oh dear, look what you've done," he says with false sympathy, "Your dear housekeeper is so fragile. Spare her workload."

With that, he stalks past her, entering the stateroom with a smug wink on his face, "Be careful over the glass, sweetpea. Don't want to cut yourself in a frenzy."

Sherlock collapses into the divan, his anger transmuting into something resembling abject helplessness. This was the worst way anyone could have humiliated him. He grits his teeth upon seeing Gregson inspecting him like a watchdog. Mrs. Hudson rushes to comfort him as well as gather the broken pieces of china out of the way.

"Oh Sherlock! What have you done?!" She's almost horrified at his daring.

 

* * *

 

Next visit is by Mycroft who is much less composed than Victor was.

"Excuse us, Mrs. Hudson," but she's gone even before Mycroft could even finish his words. Sherlock is sitting on a settee facing the fireplace and away from the door, playing pizzicato notes on the violin, recalling in his mind the gypsy tune he had played the last night.

"I'll repeat what Victor has said. You are to stay here today—"

"Oh, will I?" he grumbles, "It's only a matter of time. I will find my way out of this suite, you know it Mycroft. I've done it dozens of times. You're only asking me to have  _fun_."

"What is wrong with you?" he wheels him towards him, "There are class divides for a reason, Sherlock. And yet I find you being gravitated to the smell of the lower rungs, the noise, the people!"

Sherlock dumps the violin on his chair and rises to his full height. He comes close to Mycroft, their noses almost touching. The latter does not back away, but simply looks down to check the gleam of his over-shined shoes.

"You're a hypocrite."

Mycroft backs away, meeting Sherlock's eyes coldly, "Am I?"

"Do you really think that I do not know what passes between you and Andrea?!"

Mycroft's grip on his umbrella tightens at that. Sherlock has hit a nerve, "How dare you suggest that she's a maid? She's as much as part of the family as you or Mrs. Hudson are."

"Till the day she and her paramour poison you and take off towards Newfoundland," Sherlock sneers, "If you don't consider her your employee, you have no right to look down at John in the same manner."

"Oh, so it's _John_ now, is it?" Mycroft says calmly, "At least I don't go slipping off deck rungs with her like you do with _John_."

"How would you? You won't fit there at all!"

"You are not to see that Alpha again, do you understand me, Sherlock? I forbid it! Because I'll not be made out a fool!"

"Oh, save that for the poor little unhappy wretch who marries you!" he retreats back to his chair and returns to his violin. Mycroft looms above him, looking down at him like a terrible storm.

"Sherlock, this is not a game! Our situation is precarious. You know the money's gone!"

"Of course I know it's gone. You remind me every day!"

Mycroft sucks in his breath, and massages his forehead. Sherlock is extremely difficult to talk to, "I don't understand you. It is a fine match with Victor. He is the heir to most of the Alleghany mines, and dashing too. It will insure our survival."

"Survival?" Sherlock sneers, "Isn't that what we've been doing till now?"

With blazing speed, he catches hold of Mycroft's wrist before the latter can pull it away. He undoes the shirt cuff and pulls it away to reveal the hidden marks of those cigar impressions, supposedly branding him as a man of weak character for having put his Omega brother's best interests above everything else.

"You used to stand up for me, Mycroft. This is what you were. And yet, I find you using improper dosage of chloroform on an absolute gentleman. Was it right after I left? Was it even the full minute?"

Mycroft clenches his jaw. Words came to him but his body refused to cooperate properly, "I have always done what is best for you Sherlock," his jaw slackens, "Father and I. We have done what's best. Always."

"Whatever is best? Really?" Sherlock's eyes are hard and bloodshot, his words are heavy with sarcasm as he sneers at his Alpha brother, "Do not forget, Mycroft," he tries to look imposing but underneath, Mycroft can see the wound and the naked fear in his eyes, "If you marry me to this man, I will have to forfeit my freedom of speech or movement or thought. And that, for me, will be equivalent to death."

Mycroft's eyes soften for a minute at his threat, but then his expression turns granite again, "And don't forget for one second that if you do anything unwise, it will be equivalent to Mr. Watson's death."

With an unreadable expression, he turns around and leaves the room, locking it behind him. Sherlock is paralysed by with shock for a few seconds. He plops back down on the sofa, half-wishing that John to had not saved him that night.

* * *

It's afternoon when he hears the key turn into the lock. Victor slips in, smiling from one end to the other end of his face. It's not a fake one, Sherlock observes as Victor comes to him and takes his hand, sending an oddly tingling sensation down his nerves. The room seems small, too small for the two of them, the Alpha scent of Victor too much for him to resist.

"Wear something decent and come with me," he whispers quietly. Sherlock's heart does a somersault in response. Victor looks in every way the fine Alpha he is, crisp suit, no extra creases, hair and nails done to perfection, every bit rivalling tenderness particular to Red Riding Hood's grandmother before she became the hungry wolf.

Oblivious, Sherlock frowns, "Where?"

In reply, Victor bends down to his ear and whispers, his breath warm and tingling, "Mycroft is stuck in a dreadfully tiresome lunch with the Countess and Mr. Ismay. I am disinclined to dine with their _fine_ company, to his knowledge, although I suspect that he does not believe me—"

"Where?" Sherlock cannot help but smile upon hearing his brother's pitiful condition.

"It's a surprise," he leans forward and kisses him squarely on his lips. Sherlock wants to kiss him back, to drown himself in the strange sort of excitement he is experiencing. The twinge between his legs is back again and his body wants him to spread them against Victor, rut and kiss his Alpha back. With indomitable force of will, he resists.

"Now, don't be late," Victor opens his eyes and kisses him one last time before running his thumb over his lip, "But I wouldn't be cross at all if you dressed in front of me."

Somehow, even if it shouldn't, it sends a spike of arousal—unknowing, unfamiliar, slightly overwhelming and frightening arousal—coursing through Sherlock. He tramples over budding thought with a stubborn foot before narrowing his eyes and making Victor smirk.

"Have it your way," he says, and slips out of the room. Sherlock makes sure that the key is turned before stripping down to his pants.

Curiosity overtakes his sulking and he dons a simple grey two piece suit. When he marches out of his room, Victor is standing there holding his long black coat and a blue silk scarf. Sherlock's suspicions are instantly aroused, but then he remembers that he is here without Mycroft's apparent knowledge. Victor wouldn't want Andrea tagging along and coming to know that Sherlock was let out of his room without Mycroft's knowledge. He wordlessly wraps the scarf around his neck. Victor takes his hand rather tenderly than he usually does. They exit their stateroom as Victor pulls out a blindfold. Sherlock's eyes narrow at that.

"Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"I told you," says he fondly, "It's a secret."

"Are you going to throw me overboard? Because that'll be incriminating for you. I'm sure that even people with pinhead sized brains will notice that you led a blindfolded man across the ship."

Victor breaks into the gentleman's laughter, "I rather like your sense of humour, Sherlock. If I had to throw you overboard, I'd have done it already."

Sherlock suppresses a wince at that, and lets Victor put a blindfold on his eyes anyway, " Alright."

He walks him through the B-deck foyer, through to Mycroft's suite and round and round and they end up inside their own suite at last.

"Where do you think we are, darling?"

Sherlock pretends to be thinking too hard. He screws up his face, until the irritation comes through, "I should imagine. . . our own stateroom. What on earth is this—?"

Victor removes the blindfold as soon as he hears Sherlock starting to complain. As for the latter, he closes his mouth shut with an audible click, processing the changes that had been done to the sitting room. There's a dining table instead of the circular low table. It is fully laid with—

"Well, you do know how to spoil a surprise," Victor leans against Sherlock's back, pressing a soft kiss to his neck and inhaling his scent, causing a jolt of pleasure downwards, "I was going to wait until supper but the. . . thought of you being locked inside the whole time did not quite sit well with me, so here we are. We're having our brunch here."

Sherlock frowns, not able to comprehend the situation. He finds the idea rather strange that he's being rewarded for spending the evening with steerage folks. Something was wrong, but Victor seems so earnest that Sherlock decides to play along.

"I'm not hungry."

"Neither am I. Do you like it?"

It was a candlelight lunch, to be precise. All the windows were closed, giving them the impression of night-time.

"It's. . . overwhelming," says he, for the lack of a better word.

"Come on, then," he takes his hand in his gently, like Sherlock is as brittle as glass, and guides him over to a chair, drawing it out for his convenience. Sherlock goes to the other chair and promptly sits on it, leaving Victor to remove his suit jacket and smile to himself.

"You'll never go down without a fight, will you?" He takes a seat and serves Sherlock the appetizer, minced beef and lamb with marinated beet, a dish whose name Sherlock had deleted a long time ago, "Have faith in me, dearest. You act as if I will throw you into prison the day I make you mine."

You don't say, Sherlock thinks.

"You seem very certain about that," Sherlock observes. The sitting room, it's like a sweltering mess of heat and . . . that something again. Something that resembles discomfort far too much.

"Anything else would be simply indecisiveness," Victor says, "You can't have your Alpha indecisive, can you, Sherlock?"

"Pretty speech," Sherlock retorts, "But words whispered through prison bars lose their charm."

Victor smirks, "Can I be blamed for my efforts? After all, I cannot tolerate another Alpha in your presence, let alone meeting your eyes," he looks Sherlock up and down, as if undressing him with his eyes, and the thought itself makes Sherlock inhale air more than his lungs can accommodate, "more so when you are in such a . . . desirable state ."

Sherlock draws in a sharp breath. His headache and fuzzy-headedness return, although not in full force, but enough to make him shift in his chair and be aware of a clamminess in his nether regions. He ignores it promptly, eyeing Victor warily, who seems to be waiting for him to start.

"I apologise if I come across too bold and forward," Victor whispers, "But it would taste a lie to say that I do not wish to be so."

"When has that ever stopped you?" Sherlock retorts, and Victor serves the sauce.

"How very flattering," he pushes the dish forward in a show of control over Sherlock.

"Eat," he says, with more force than compassion.

Sherlock glances at the food. The thought of eating through a headache like that seems terribly uninviting. Nevertheless, he takes the spoon and gulps down the first mouthful down his throat. Victor follows suit, throwing him a smile.

The lunch passes mostly in silence, with both of them casting surreptitious glances at one another. Sherlock's stomach churns whenever he looks into Victor's eyes. He can tell that Victor is secretly pleased about something, very pleased. He remains buried in his thoughts, while replying to Victor's remarks dubiously. It was only after the valet has cleared the cutlery that Victor rises and pours them some red wine. He leads him out to the promenade, breaking the illusion of night as the sunlight spills upon them. Victor wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, inhaling and relishing the Omega's intoxicating scent.

"I didn't know you were shy," says he, pressing gentle kisses on the side of his neck, "Nonetheless. . . I—forgive you, for today," he pants out, "I suppose—it shouldn't have been very. . . un—unexpected, given the circumstances," he almost sinks his teeth into his flesh.

Sherlock shivers in pleasure as he slaps himself mentally. It was just the Alpha scent, he tells himself, nothing much. But Victor turns him around, and this time his kiss isn't gentle like always. This time it's close to bruising. Sherlock finds himself wrapping his arms around the Alpha's neck, kissing him back with the same passion. They don't break the contact as they reach Victor's room in a tangle of limbs. Sherlock tries his best to pull away, telling his mind fervently that it is nothing but hormones but body isn't ready to respond to him. At this moment of time, his body finds itself in the presence of an aroused Alpha, and it has its way.

Victor pushes him on the bed, climbing atop him and grinding their bodies together as Sherlock's mind screams to stop, to push him away. Instead he finds himself pulling at his collar like dear life as Victor continues to undress him. And there it is, that certain something, again. His mind braces itself for a panic attack as he realises what it was. He wants to tear himself apart for being so thick as to not see it before.

He tries to scream John's name and Mycroft's name, but only a soft moan emerges from his lips.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Victor wheezes as he licks his scent gland, ready to mark him as Bonded and trigger the Estrus hormones in full force, "I'm going to make you mine right here!"


	8. Rescue

About an hour and a half ago:

The Countess of Rothes is a popular figure in the London society, known for her philanthropic ventures, her blonde beauty, bright personality, graceful dancing and the diligence with which she helps organize lavish entertainments patronized by English royalty and members of the nobility. Mycroft and his Father were always very fond of her and of the Earl. But his mind couldn't be at ease even in the presence of her cheerful chatter, even in the sunny surroundings of the Palm Court Restaurant.

He ponders over his row with Sherlock. He wonders if he has done the right thing. He still wants to believe that Sherlock had not meant the words he said, but the look in his brother's eyes does not fail to haunt him. He gives the Countess a strained smile as she goes on about her Red Cross ventures and her charitable work with the Duchess of Devonshire. She does not fail to perceive his anxiety.

"Mycroft," her voice is low and a little worried when she finishes, "Is there something wrong?"

He is slightly stricken when he realises that his emotion is there on his face for public display. He composes himself in an instant, "Nothing, my dear Noëlle, just the usual."

"I didn't see Sherlock today. Is he ill?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Noëlle blushes at his insinuation, but then she becomes more worried, "Oh dear. Where's Victor then?"

"Out. For some air, perhaps."

Mycroft knows where Victor is, and what he is probably doing. And he knows that he should've done something to restrain the younger Alpha when he excused himself upon finding that he couldn't resist a Sherlock in his first Estrus. But there was no other option left. It's scandalous to leave an Unbonded Omega alone with any Alpha other than a family Alpha, more so in one room, but Sherlock wouldn't listen. They were getting married anyway, and Sherlock would have to submit. The earlier, the better. Bonding brings about the obedience and the devotion that befits an Omega, or it is said to. Mycroft is never really sure about anything when it comes to his brother.

"Does he know?"

Mycroft shakes his head in denial.

He feels like a failed man, a failed family Alpha and above everything else, a failed brother. Sherlock's parting words haunt him. Although he knows that his brother is intelligent enough to see more sense than simply end his life, he also remembers that this is Sherlock. His stubbornness and impatience naturally outweigh his discretion.

He sometimes wishes his father hadn't fixed Sherlock's marriage at all.

He sometimes wishes, however impractical it is, for Sherlock to have remained the four-year-old whose gender had still not been determined, who scoffed at the story of 'The Princess and the Frog', declaring the Princess as stupid for having even thought of kissing a frog, and the eight year old who hated wearing trousers.

The four year Sherlock would not recognise the seventeen year old at all, maybe even laugh at him for choosing the frog over the Prince. But that is dealt with. John Watson was not a stupid man. He would take the threat seriously. He would never come after him again.

Frankly, he never expected that this is how Sherlock felt about his betrothal to Victor, that he would die than marry an Alpha. But, there is no way out. They won't last six months without the money, and Mycroft cannot imagine a life on the streets with an Unbonded Omega near him, with him and the rascals twice a month tearing after them during Sherlock's Estrus when he himself is almost an invalid when it comes to physical and strenuous activity.

He gets distracted from his thoughts as he sees Andrea coming towards him. He rises and goes to her.

"No sign of Mr. Trevor on the ship anywhere else, sir." She confirms his suspicions. Mycroft nods and resumes his seat, while Noëlle turns to seek Andrea's more pleasant company.

What have I done, he tries not to think.

 

* * *

 

Walking along the B-Deck, John has the suit in his hand. Returning it to Molly Brown is only an excuse to go see Sherlock and get this feeling out of him. He doesn't care if Mycroft or Victor see him. The only thing which worries him is how he is going to get to the B Deck staterooms without being sent back. Fortunately, Greg had a black coat and a bowler hat arranged for him. He could pass for a gentleman, only till the promenade. Almost, he reminds himself again, could pass for a gentleman.

Then he remembers that it's almost lunch time. It had taken him an awful lot of time to get the suit properly cleaned and dried.

But when he reaches the B Deck promenade, he sees Mycroft seated with Molly, the Countess, the Astors and Mr. Ismay. He wonders where Victor is, and more importantly, where Sherlock is. He mentions to a steward, who does a double take at him. He knows that he won't be allowed inside. He sees it in the steward's eyes.

"Listen, can you call that lady over there?" he points to Molly, "I need to return her these." He shows him the formalwear. The steward does not seem to believe him, but the suit in his hands does look very fine. He goes in, and John watches him whisper into Molly Brown's ears. For a second, he's almost worried that she has already forgotten him, but when she glances to see Mycroft lost in his thoughts and smiles benevolently at John, he sighs in relief. She walks outside, giving him a motherly pat on the shoulder and leading him to the B Deck staterooms, smirking at the properly washed and starched suit piece.

"How did it go with Sherlock, Watson?" He is surprised to see that she remembers his name.

"S'cuse me?" John tries to look unaffected through the disappointment that floods through him.

"Do not play dumb with me, Watson," she chides coolly.

He shrugs his shoulders, faking nonchalance, but nothing misses her eye, "Bailed on you, did he? Come on," she takes his arm, "I didn't give you that suit just to gawk at him all night."

"I. . . didn't," John looks away whilst thinking that the upper classes could easily detect what he is thinking by his facial expressions. Molly only responds with, "Goodness, look at the poor boy! I saw the way you were looking at him despite my lovely chatter yesterday. You couldn't take your eyes off him."

John knows that he's busted. He simply smiles sheepishly in acquiescence.

"I know what you're thinking. Sorry to tell you, but Sherlock is ill."

"Ill?" John wonders guiltily if the ale was responsible in any way.

"Yup. Hasn't been out the whole day."

She enters her stateroom, which is one of the first ones, and he hands her the suit, standing outside the room, "You have my thanks for yesterday evening, Mrs. Brown. I don't know what would've happened if I—" he looks down at his clothes. Sherlock was right, they were crumpled from sleeping in them.

"Hey, don't mention it! You've done a better job than any of those damn drycleaners!" For emphasis, she pulls out another suit and waves it in front of the cleaner suit, making John smile.

"Alright, then, Mrs. Brown. Thank you. It's been an honour."

"Just say that you want to accompany me back to the restaurant. Bleedin' Alphas, even the ones poking their heads out of the egg shell! I'm better here, I've had enough ship and rich talk without Jim on my side."

John's smile widens and he excuses himself out of the suite and back to his own cabin. It would be best not to disturb Sherlock while he recovered. There's always time for tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

"So beautiful," Victor whispers against his skin, the pheromones and the lust still unable to camouflage that deceptively calm voice of his, "You want me, don't you?"

He watches the Omega writhing underneath, trying to extract himself from his grip, but to no avail. It's a half-hearted process. Sherlock's body is fighting against his wishes. He has no control over himself.

"You want me inside you."

A whimper is all he gets as a response to a lick to Sherlock's weeping scent gland.

Sherlock's mind is unable to stay aloof to the lust building up inside him. He has never felt the emotion, he isn't even sure that it _is_ an emotion, it's so terrifyingly dark and powerful. He tries to summon the last shreds of rational thinking and tries to force himself into doing what he wanted to do: throw Victor off him and break off the engagement, while claiming that he had attempted to take advantage of him. Oh, this gave him the perfect window of opportunity, Sherlock would have marvelled at his good luck, but on second thoughts, he would have to get rid of him first.

And that is going to proving to be very difficult.

No, it should be possible, to stop the Estrus, somehow. It isn't even a proper Estrus cycle, Sherlock knows. An Alpha so close to his Omega body all evening had triggered the pseudo-Estrus that should've made said Alpha scent him, thus ending the courtship and beginning the process of mating. He tries not to think of John. He tries not to think of any Alpha. Or the one rutting against his burgeoning arousal. He has to get away before Victor scents him, because not doing so will just initiate the Heat in full force. Once he is away from any Alpha who isn't family, his pseudo-Heat will be over within a matter of hours.

He hadn't read the clues when it mattered. The stimulating dreams created by the remnants of John's Alpha scent on him, that certain something that only Victor and Mycroft, being Alphas, could detect. Why Mrs. Hudson couldn't perceive anything like that. Why he was asked to stay inside and why he was asked to wrap that scarf around his neck. Why he had an angry outburst, and why Victor was trying so hard to please him. It would serve a double purpose, as he had declared. True indeed.

He should have known, he should have foreseen his pseudo-Estrus. The start had been there, plain as day in front of him. He was too slow, too self-absorbed in the previous night's events to have noticed it.

He feels his cognitive processes diminishing rapidly as Victor's hands travel all over him, tearing his shirt off and laying his chest bare. His hands move southward and Sherlock can't help but lean into his touch, into the pleasure that was pooling there. Victor mashes their lips together, making him feel weirdly nauseous. How he wishes to throw up, just to get this tyrant off him, just to punish him for being so jealous about a drifter, so much jealous that he jumped at the first opportunity which presented itself.

Victor attacks his neck again, drowning himself in the delicious aroma, while his fingers caress his inner thigh. It takes Sherlock a mountain of effort just to remove his fingers from Victor's hair and to stop his hand from touching him.

"No. . ." is all he can mutter, while trying to shove Victor off and kissing him at the same time. John's memory serves to make his resolve a little stronger. Victor can sense his inhibitions, and somehow that serves to turn him on more than ever.

"Oh Sherlock, must you always be so trying?"

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Brown watches till he's out of sight, smiling to herself. She knows that John does not realise how smitten Sherlock was during the dinner party. Sherlock had been barely eating, not that he usually did, but this time the reason was completely different. Regardless of whether he had left John, she had never seen him so excited and so participating during the dinner time. Most of the time, Sherlock stayed still like a figurine. He only talked to Mr. Andrews, asking him about the construction details and the why and how about it, and made occasional witty remarks when prompted, mostly at Mycroft's expense.

No matter however ill he was, she was certainly going to tell the young man that John had come looking for him. Although she knew that Sherlock pretended to be aloof and cold, she could not contain herself just to imagine the aloofness trying and failing to mask the true happiness behind his eyes. She knows that Sherlock isn't exactly in high spirits about his engagement to Victor, and it isn't her place to intervene but. . . well, she just couldn't help this. It would be just so refreshing to see another young couple in love, instead of the contract that Sherlock was bound in.

She knows that of all people, Sherlock likes her the best. Well, if 'like' were truly a relative term and if you were not to count Mr. Andrews. He would never dismiss her the way he usually dismissed others.

So she dons a shawl over tea dress , puts on her hat and walks to B-52 only to be greeted by the cold eyes and the bland face of Victor's valet, Mr. Gregson. She frowns when he stares at her like at an impostor, instead of allowing her inside.

"I wanna see Sherlock," says she. She does not know what is happening inside, for she thinks that Sherlock is alone in the suite.

"Mr. Holmes is indisposed for the day."

"Yeah I know that. Step aside."

When Gregson does not comply, she frowns, quite irritated, "What the hell's wrong with you? I'm asking you to open the door!"

"He's very ill."

"Well, go an' call a doctor then. And what's he doing here inside instead of being in the Hospital room?"

"No one is allowed inside, ma'am. Mr. Trevor's orders."

Molly frowns, "What the hell? He's only sick, not a big—!"

And then it hits her, Sherlock locked for the whole day inside the room, his "illness", Victor's unusually good mood, his sudden absence, man posted  _outside_  their suite.

"Open this door, man!" She cries out, "Or I'll call all the stewards and make a scene over here!"

She looks quite intimidating, but it has no effect on Gregson. Some people passing by look over to see the source of the commotion. Some even gasp at her ungainly manner, muttering, "Goodness, what a vulgar woman!" But she pays them no heed.

"I'm going to tell you one more time, you pigheaded bastard! Open the goddamned door! Where's your sense of morality?" Gregson looks confused to see so many pairs of eyes darting in his direction, "There's an Unbonded Omega there with an Alpha, for God's sake!"

At the mention of this, several people let out an audible gasp, knowing the said Omega and the Alpha, but they do nothing to help her. At last, a steward pushes through, "What's the matter, ma'am?"

"He won't open the door! My son is in there!"

"Ma'am, please! Sir, please open the door for the lady," he tries, but Gregson is adamant.

"Listen, if you don't open the door, I'll have the master-at-arms here," she turns to the steward, "Fetch the master-at-arms, sonny!"

The steward tries to go away, but Gregson holds him in place, showing all of them his revolver. Most scurry off, clearly frightened.

"What is the problem?" says one of the last women left, "Why're you arguing with the lady? She wants to see her son, open the door."

"I'm not afraid of guns," says Molly, "I grew up in America and I shot coyotes when I was a girl, damn it! Come on, sister. Help me a little here."

"No need to call the master-at-arms!" says he, "I was a cop myself!"

"Then you better start acting like one. I'll have Mycroft down here, I swear, now hand over the keys!"

Gregson looks a little spooked at Mycroft's name. It is clear that his formidable demeanour has not failed to make an impression on this tough ex-Pinkerton cop. He hands them the key most reluctantly, "You're not allowed inside," comes Gregson's voice from behind her, as they both burst in, but the other woman only glares him into silence. Molly Brown comes to a halt when she hears it.

"Oh Sherlock, must you always be so trying?"

She bursts into Victor's room to see both of them half-clothed on the bed, with Victor on top and Sherlock thrashing underneath him, unable to scream. He turns around at the intruder and is shocked to see her. He grabs his shirt, just as Molly reaches to push him away from Sherlock while trying not to see them indecent.

"You perverted bastard!" she cries out, draping her shawl across Sherlock's shoulders and cradling his head even though he does not need it, "Wait till I get Mycroft here!"

Although thrashing earlier, the loss of contact from the Alpha makes Sherlock want to push Molly Brown away and go back to Victor and cling to him. He suppresses his craving only by holding on to Molly, his anchor at the moment.

Victor only looks at her, still in a daze owing to the pheromones saturating the room. She glares at him as Sherlock slowly starts to recover from the yearning that hormones have created within him.

"Get outta here!" She growls at him, while attempting to comfort the Omega.

"Mrs. Brown," he is fully clothed now and he comes over to them, trying to be dominating but not even an fraction of his natural demeanour, "Need I remind you that this is my suite and—!"

"And he is not married to you yet!" The adverb 'unwillingly' hangs in mid-air, "Just because he's in Heat, it doesn't mean that you can take advantage of him. A gentleman, for Heaven's sake! Only God knows what could've happened if I hadn't come here!"

And before Victor can anticipate her next move, she takes Sherlock and leads him away from him into the sitting room, taking advantage of Victor's dimmed reflexes. The woman outside looks shocked as Molly grabs his shirt and his jacket, helping him into it. She sprays some perfume onto him so that no one can detect the scent of the pheromones. Being a woman, they did not affect her. But the atmosphere, she had to admit, was intolerably thick. She wondered what it would do to Alphas, if she being a woman, was able to detect them.

"It's alright," she whispers, patting his back, when she sees him trying to regain his composure as quickly as possible, "Relax. I've got you. We'll go to my room and stay there till Mycroft arrives."

Sherlock takes her hand in his and shifts it away from himself politely. Molly Brown seems to understand and she retracts her hand away. He has never felt so helpless in his life, so trapped. He is still willing, and he despises himself for it. There's still arousal heavy in his trousers. He can still feel his scent gland weeping, and it should've brought Victor straight towards him, not caring about people watching, only to mark Sherlock as his mate. But he doesn't. One wrong move, and Victor's whole life can come falling down as a result of his less-than-gentlemanly act.

Sherlock's very body had just almost submitted to the carnal pleasures that Victor. . . oh Lord, what would have happened if Molly Brown hadn't decided to drop by?

He wants to get away from this room for the moment. The pheromones, although subduing, were still affecting him. Victor comes into the sitting room, his hair ruffled and his waistcoat buttoned in all the wrong places. He isn't affected in the slightest by the glowering looks Molly Brown bestows upon him. He looks defiant, and if Sherlock happened to look into them, he would see order written in them, an order he, being an Omega, must follow without question.

The pseudo-Estrus slowly diminishes as more distance is put between them. The world around him looks more normal than before. His head is slowly clearing. His skin is not prickling anymore and waves and waves of pheromones gradually come to a stop.

Sherlock looks around at the suite or wherever Victor does not happen to be there, and then at Molly, "Mrs. Brown," he's surprised that words come to him after all, in spite of this frightening and shocking incident, "If it's not too much trouble, may I—?"

But he never finishes as Mycroft hurries into the stateroom. He takes in one whiff of the room, processing instantly what had happened, or rather what was going to happen. He looks, for one second, immensely relieved, but then his expression becomes bland as he sees Molly Brown and realises that this is a result of her intervention. Regret is the final emotion that manages to cross his face as his eyes settle upon Sherlock.

"My suite. Now."

Sherlock does not want to go to Mycroft and neither to Molly's. He wants to be left alone, something that people don't seem to understand and appreciate. He turns the situation in his mind and manages to look up at his brother's eyes. He stands up to his full height, not willing to look helpless and victimized.

"Sherlock, are you even listen—"

He puts up a hand, and does a take at Victor: defiant, unrepentant, mildly furious at his plans gone awry.

"There you are, Mycroft," says Molly, "I—"

"You knew."

It is the only logical explanation. Sherlock has seen Mycroft come out of worse situations, like a cork floating back to the surface. And it is highly unlikely that Andrea did not see Victor entering the stateroom. Mycroft had allowed for this to happen, done nothing to stop it.

Molly whips around at Sherlock's words, noting the slight anger, the disbelief underlying his tone. Although she knows that this is not her place anymore, she doesn't want to leave Sherlock's side.

"I never—"

"You knew." Same tone, cold, hard, disbelieving, angry, betrayed.

Sherlock cannot have expected anything more from Victor. To him, life is a profit and loss statement, nothing else. Every single of his actions are devoted to the end goals he set for himself. That is what Sherlock probably is to him, an end goal, a prize to be locked inside his glass cabinets that he can admire and take and pull the reins whenever he wants. If he read him correctly, he would come and apologize to him later. A more apt description would be apologizing without a trace of sincerity.

But Mycroft knew. Or at least he had figured out Victor's plans for the afternoon. Mycroft does not meet his brother's gaze. He looks down at his attire again, his fingers reaching out to pick the imaginary lint. Molly sees this too. All his disgust towards Victor's actions is nothing compared to the bitter hatred he feels towards his calm, collected brother.

"Mrs. Brown," Mycroft straightens up, "I trust I can take it from here."

Not even a thank you. Only an order.

Sherlock gives her a terse nod at which she, although slightly unconvinced, excuses herself. He walks out of the room, toward Mycroft's suite, only to be stopped by his brother's voice.

"Sherlock," he swallows, "I did not wish this."

"Who cares what you want?! You could have stopped him, and you didn't. That's all that matters."

"Victor, if you could please—" Mycroft begins, only to be interrupted by Sherlock.

"By all means, get out of my sight! I don't want to see you anymore!"

Victor leers at him, sending an involuntary shudder down him. He wants to tear that smug smile on his face, the satisfaction that he could make him do whatever he wanted him to do. Mycroft shuts the door behind him.

"How dare you involve that vulgar 'Brown' woman in this?" he growls.

"Involve?" Sherlock feels outraged. Molly Brown had done what Mycroft should have done, "You were the one who—"

"I came. I'd have rescued you."

Sherlock tries to suppress a snort as he opens the door, pointing outwards, "That lowlife would have knotted me," he spits the word in Mycroft's face, not caring about the way his brother flinches when he hears the vulgar word leave Sherlock's mouth, "before you even came here. Father was right about you. You're a coward."

Mycroft backs away, noting the vehemence and the spite with which his words were delivered. Sherlock grabs the keys to Mycroft's suite and turns away towards the door, only to stop for one last retort.

"Are you not coming back to your rooms?"

Mycroft frowns out of surprise, but follows him to outside his suite, only to feel the ornate door of B-56 slam in his face, literally, giving Sherlock whatever little satisfaction he can derive from it. Mycroft massages his nose and looks at Andrea, standing there like a statue.

"What now, sir?"

He suppresses a sigh, "Get me Victor."

 

* * *

 

There's a soft knock on Sherlock's door. Before he can stop Mrs. Hudson, she flings it wide open to find Victor at the doorstep. Sherlock can hear his laboured breathing, and Mrs. Hudson's sharp inhale as she processes his presence. Sherlock is just thankful that it has been hours since his pseudo-Estrus dissipated, and that Victor will not be tempted to have his way with him again. If it were up to her, she would have driven him away with a broomstick. But she remains silent, and gives him a curt, disrespectful bow, something which makes the Alpha's lips twitch into a grimace.

"Could you excuse us, Mrs. Hudson?"

She glances at Sherlock anxiously, afraid to leave him in the same room as him. Sherlock, knowing the expression on her face, turns around to relieve her. She turns around and stations herself near the door, just in case.

He lets the violin rest on his knee, his expression changing from impassive to outright murderous. He remains disconcertingly still, before his frustration takes hold of him, his voice taking a slightly ominous tone, "What are you doing here?"

"What you expect me to do," he says simply.

"I expect you to pack your things and throw yourself into the Atlantic."

Victor succumbs to laughter, "Admit it, Sherlock. You were  _enjoying_  it."

His last words are absolutely fatal. Sherlock's breath picks up against his wishes as Victor draws closer, only to stop at a torturous distance from him. Maybe the pseudo-Estrus will not go away, not when his body is already prepared for the possibility of a successful mating (oh, _how_ he hates his biology and the complexities which govern it).

"See what I mean," he backs away, inspecting his perfectly manicured nails with a smug smile on his face. Sherlock's grip on the instrument tightens. He resists the urge to bash his head with it. The violin isn't worth it, he decides.

"I own you. If you think otherwise, then you're only fooling yourself."

Sherlock looks him in the eye, insubordinate, bold and with bottomless loathing, "You—do—not—own—me."

"Well, you're right," he replies casually, "Not yet, but I will," he licks his lips lecherously, his voice escaping into a whisper, "It's a certainty," and back to normal, "But anyway, I have come to apologize," He announces, his words transmuting into a shameless drawl, not even bothering to hide the callousness, "I'm sorry for. . ."

But they are drowned under mindless screeching of the scraping against the fiddle that Sherlock begins to counter with. Victor stops within an instant. And so does Sherlock.

"He said you would do that. Mycroft" The tone was amused, tutting at his predictability.

"Leave!" says he, clearly annoyed.

"Oh, too bad," Victor rises from his chair and proceeds towards the door, "I had a surprise planned for you. Exclusively for you. A wedding gift."

And, as usual, his curiosity gets the best of him, "What?"

"No, it's alright. I'll go away. But, for the record, I talked to Mr. Andrews over dinner tonight."

Sherlock becomes more attentive to that, but at the back of his mind he decides to start wailing on the fiddle if the idea was boring, maybe the screech he had especially composed with the intention of the "piece" being played when they would exchange vows in front of the Reverend. His anger disappears momentarily as he visualises the appalled guests, especially Mycroft. So marvellous!

He snaps back to reality. Of his "wedding gift".

"Well, he said he'll lead a tour group, starting from tomorrow," Sherlock is starting to hate Victor's voice as well, "For two days. But you won't be interested, will you?" He gives him a grin made to rival the Cheshire cat, "Good night then, sweetpea—"

"When?"

"Right after the service, of course. You'll attend the service."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Another trick of Mycroft wanting to teach him all things a good little Omega should indulge in like praying to outlandish fantasies like God.

"Why should I?"

He chuckles darkly, "I wish you to." These words don't have any element of humour in them, and Sherlock hated to admit it, but it was slightly putting him on edge, "Do not think for one second that I've forgiven you for screwing around with that Watson in Third Class the previous night and for letting him scent you, you slag," his voice is calm even amidst the fury in his eyes. His hands crawl to the nape of his neck, grabbing a fistful of hair and urging Sherlock forward painfully. His lips are inches away from his, "You have seen what I can do to you, Sherlock. You're an intelligent Omega, and you know that  **I**  am your fiancé. That is the ultimate truth. You do what I _want_ you to do. You think whatever I _want_ you to think. Do you understand me?"

"Mr. Trevor," comes a voice near the doorstep. Victor frowns and turns around to see Mycroft standing in the doorway. He had never called him 'Mr. Trevor'. The severe tone of the younger Alpha's voice is all it takes Victor to send a calculating glare in Sherlock's direction and turn to Mycroft with his charming smile back on.

"I trust that it is enough apology for one day."

"Oh, yes of course. But let's proceed back to brandy?"

"I'll be a moment. Andrea dear, kindly keep Mr. Trevor company on his way back."

Victor extends his arm to her and smirks, "Well, shall we dear?"

Mrs. Hudson comes out after Victor has left, looking extremely anxious, "I don't know what goes around in that swollen head of yours, Mycroft Holmes!" Mycroft looks away, not liking to be told about his failures at all, "How could you let your little brother—?!"

"Mrs. Hudson, don't you have more important things to do?" says he, mildly annoyed. Though his tone is a little harsh, he can no longer hold her gaze and turns his head away, lowering his eyes.

Sherlock merely glares at him as she stalks away, "What now?"

"To remind you that you haven't had dinner."

"I'm not hungry," he snaps.

"Go and have dinner," he orders him.

"Well, you've had my portion, haven't you? Why trouble the sad cooks when they have you to feed?!"

Mycroft lets out an exasperated sigh, and looks down at his brother, regret curling the edge of his lips downwards, "I am sorry," it's the most difficult set of words he has ever uttered.

"I bet they have got cramps by now," says he, completely disregarding Mycroft's apology. The latter simply bites his lower lip.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"No."

"If you hadn't gone with that Watson down the deck rungs, this wouldn't have happened."

Sherlock clenches his fist. Mycroft is right; John's Alpha scent and his prolonged company with him had triggered the Estrus, a grave mistake. He closes his eyes. How could he not have thought of that the previous night? This misfortune wouldn't have happened.

"Give me the keys to Victor's suite, will you?"

Mycroft frowns, "Why?"

"I'm going out tomorrow for that tour. I wouldn't want every Alpha gawking at me, would I? I need to mask this awful lingering odour, smell like a Beta at least. Thankfully this isn't as bad as . . . well."

Mycroft hands him the keys with an all-suffering sigh, "Be back before—"

"Ten, I know. Now, go away. Leave!"


	9. Last Day On Earth

Sunday, 14th April, 1912

The tension in the air is almost palpable as both the brothers—one willingly, the other less so—prepare for the Sunday service, dressing in the best from their wardrobe. Sherlock meets Mycroft's eye over the mantelpiece mirror as Mycroft deftly ties the knot of his tie with one sure tug. Mycroft avoids his eye neatly as he clears his throat and wipes his forehead with his handkerchief and pretends to be interested in a spot under his eye.

"Going the way of Uncle Rudy, are you now, Mycroft?" Sherlock says tetchily upon seeing Mycroft so invested in his own face, "Next thing I know, you'll be sticking your newly excessively-powdered nose instead of only your nose where it doesn't belong."

Mycroft stills for a moment at the venom in the tone, and then eyes himself so that he doesn't have to see the stiff curve of Sherlock's shoulders. And then straightens up with a smart cough, "Have you taken all the precautions today, Sherlock?"

"Like I said," Sherlock buttons his cuffs, "sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Mycroft scowls. "How many times do you need me to apologise to you, Sherlock?" he protests.

"Will apologising take back what would have befallen me?!" Sherlock spins around lividly, "And your less-than-gentlemanly conduct with Mrs. Brown?"

There's an imperceptible twitch in Mycroft's jaw, after which he neatly deflects by saying, "Your. . . cologne, as you said, will last six hours. During those six hours, if you stay away from _all_ Alphas," he emphasises on 'all', "you'll be safe from the effects of your. . . condition. Once this ends, you'll be able to. . . continue your courtship with Victor."

Sherlock scoffs, "You must be either a blind or a fool if you think that I'd like to accept Victor's courtship after all. . ." he gestures at the sitting room in general, "this. And you can assume that you have lost my consent discussing such things with me in such a _laissez-faire_ fashion, Mycroft."

For one second, Mycroft looks stricken, and then he composes himself instantly, "I—I would have fled with you, brother. Taken you away, kept you safe and. . ."

"Yes, you would have," Sherlock looks into his eyes defiantly, "But you wouldn't. I don't need protection. If you were in my place, I wouldn't have done what you did."

Mycroft glowers at him, "You do not know what it is like to be me, brother dear."

For a second Sherlock is searching in Mycroft's face, what Mycroft exactly means by what is he saying. Then he turns away, puts on his suit jacket with his back towards Mycroft, "Rest assured, Mycroft. I will marry Victor just like I'm _entitled_ to, because that's as good as anything that will become of me. I do not wish to go through any intermediary steps of courtship if marriage is the ultimate and irrevocable end—"

"Brother, do not," Mycroft warns, but Sherlock only puts one hand up.

"Do not call me that!" Sherlock snaps, "You get to keep your promise to _your_ Sire, Victor will keep his promise to marry me even after everything and so will I because it is a _smart match_. So we're all men of our word."

Mycroft watches him calculatingly as Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"And I will go to the ecclesiastic service, just like you require of me."

". . . If you don't want to—"

There's a loud bang of a heavy door closing and that of the levers in the lock clicking close. Mycroft looks up. Sherlock is nowhere.

He waits for a moment to try and hear Sherlock's footsteps recede. But when there is no change in sound of feet, Mycroft sighs and follows after him, cracking his muscles which still sing in tension from a night of sleep on the divan.

Sherlock knocks on the door of the suite B-52. His entire posture is stiff. His hands are clenched at his sides. It is evident to Mycroft now just how unhappy he is and how strained his smile is as Victor opens the door with a exclamation of "sweetpea!"

It turns Mycroft's stomach, the brazen display of affection as Victor leans forward and kisses Sherlock's mouth as a part of the greeting. Mycroft averts his eyes and steps up, clearing his throat as Victor stops short because of the faint unnatural scent emanating from Sherlock's brow.

"Good morning, Victor," Mycroft flashes him a smile and Sherlock looks like he is going to lash out, "I trust you had a good night's sleep."

Victor's lips stretch in an insincere smile that is more of a grimace, "It could've been better. I am not used to sleeping without the sounds from the adjacent room."

Sherlock wishes that he had died that night.

 

* * *

 

John comes up to the Grand Staircase and D Deck reception in a relaxed manner with an attempt of 'I don't see you, you don't see me' when he spots the naval architect writing away in his small black pocketbook. It's somewhat pleasant to finally see a familiar face.

"Hello, Mr. Andrews!"

The Beta looks up at him, his eyes shining with recognition, "Oh, hello, John! How do you do? Any problems with the ship? Any faults that you might have noted? Anything I might have overlooked?"

John has half-a-mind to tell Mr. Andrews about the sanitation facilities for the Third Class—even though he wouldn't be very fastidious about them—but then decides the better of it. Titanic was a leap ahead of other steamers in terms of Third Class boarding—even if not as good as it should be. At any rate, Andrews is probably being chatty, in his own way—as the ship is the only small talk he indulges in.

"Oh no, your ship is solid as a rock, Mr. Andrews," John says with a polite smile, "Believe me."

Mr. Andrews looks pleased at his honest praise, then he looks down and back at John, "Well, maybe, you should come for the tour today?"

Furrows form under John's eyebrows. Thoughts fly immediately to Sherlock, for he would like that sort of thing, "Tour?"

"Yes. . . erm, Mr. Trevor here requested me to conduct a trip around the ship for his fiancée yesterday. You should come along, seeing as you and young Sherlock are such good friends, not that it's my place to suggest anything of that sort. But I doubt many in First Class would be interested."

John smiles warmly despite himself, and then it fades away a little. "I don't think I'll be very welcome."

Mr. Andrews nods in understanding, "Still, if you can make it."

"Believe me, I'd love to. Such a wonderful ship. Thank you for the invitation."

"Anytime."

John forces his eyes in the direction of the Dining Saloon, looking for any sightings of Mycroft or Victor, even Andrea who is capable of drugging him. His list of haters has increased three fold since the dinner party.

At the divine service, Sherlock is as still as a statue, barely moving, barely alive or attentive, while they listen to a benediction about charity, chastity, humility, temperance, faith. Mycroft keeps his brother in hindsight, to reassure himself that he is still there, with him, near him. Safe and secure.

Gregson is seated in the last row, keeping an eye on Sherlock. He notices a commotion at the entry doors. John has been halted there by two stewards. He is dressed in his third class clothes, and stands there, hat in hand, looking out of place near the entrance to the First Class Dinner Saloon.

"I just need to speak to. . . someone for a second."

"Look, you, you're not supposed to be in here," says the same steward who had wished him 'Good Evening' the two evenings ago.

"I was just here two days ago. . ." he protests, "don't you remember?" He sees Gregson coming toward him and mutters, "Christ!"

The stewards back away when they realise that John is someone he recognises. Gregson's bland face screws up into a hollow smile, "Mr. Trevor and Mr. Holmes continue to be most appreciative of your assistance. They asked me to give you this in gratitude," he holds out two twenty pound bills.

"I don't want your money, let me—"

"—and also to remind you," says Gregson, raising his voice, "that you hold a third class ticket and your presence here is no longer appropriate."

"But I just need to speak to Sherlock for one second!"

He spots Sherlock but the latter doesn't see him. He's too busy plotting murders.

"Gentlemen," he hands the steward the bills, "please see that Mr. Watson gets back where he belongs. And that he  _stays_  there."

The stewards look at each other. Twenty is a goldmine, " Yes sir! Come along, you."

Mycroft and Victor watch John being hustled out. They all rise, music starting, and Captain Smith leads the parishioners in "Eternal Father, Strong to Save."

". . . Who bids the mighty ocean deep  
It's own appointed limits keep  
O hear us when we cry to Thee  
For those in peril on the sea. . ."

John's haters have increased fourfold. He tries to look back when he thinks he hears Sherlock's voice calling at him at the end of the stanza, but he is forced to walk forward by the stewards and he bows his head when he sees the people around looking at his Bohemian self.

 

* * *

 

Thomas Andrews is leading the small tour group, including Sherlock, Mycroft, Victor and Andrea. They have reached the gymnasium. A woman pedals a stationary bicycle in a long dress, looking ridiculous. Victor is working the oars of a stationary rowing machine with a well trained stroke.

"Reminds me of my Harvard days," says he, eliciting a dramatic roll of eyes from Sherlock. He never fails to show-off.

McCauley, the gym instructor, is a bouncy little man in white flannels, eager to show off his modern equipment, like his present-day counterpart in commercials. He hits a switch and a machine with a saddle on it starts to undulate. Sherlock puts his hand on it, curious. He is slightly uncomfortable with the scarf around his neck in the sun, concealing his true odour in spite of the makeshift Beta scent he has put on. But since it is something that succeeds to displease Victor, it is almost worth it.

Astor glances at Sherlock not-so-clandestinely. It is evident that he has noted the change in Sherlock's natural scent.

"Isn't this so amazing, darling?" Madeleine Astor exclaims, attracting her husband's attention.

"Y-y-yes, dear."

"How you doing, Mr. Holmes?" He extends a warm hand to Mycroft, but the latter ignores it completely.

"Good thing you're making friends with the instructor. Might be just the thing you need, brother. Show some mercy on your poor clothes!" says he, gaining an all-suffering from his brother and titters from the rest of the tour group. Mycroft notes the absence of the usual 'dear' or 'mine' after brother. He shifts his weight to the other foot guiltily.

"The electric horse is very popular," says the instructor, "We even have an electric camel," then he turns to an absent-minded Andrea, "Care to try your hand at the rowing, ma'am?"

"Don't be absurd," one of the women pipe in before Andrea can open her mouth, "There's no other skill we should likely need less."

"The next stop on our tour will be bridge," says Andrews with a polite smile, "This way, please."

They depart and encounter Daniel Marvin outside, whose father had founded the Biograph Film Studio. He has a cinematograph camera mounted on a tripod, as he films his young bride, Mary Marvin, against the blue sea. Mary stands stiffly and smiles, self conscious.

"Not smiling!" he says vehemently, "You're sad. Sad, sad, sad! You've left your lover on the shore," says he, cranking the big wooden movie camera, "You may never see him again. Try to be sadder, darling."

Sherlock tenses up at the sudden déjà vu. Mary Marvin, without an acting fibre in her body, poses tragically at the rail, the back of her hand to her forehead.

Marvin turns around and spots Mr. Andrews smiling at them as he leads the tour group in their direction, "Oh, hello Thomas, so good to see you!" Both the men shake hands cordially.

"Hello, Daniel! Out shooting again?"

"Each one has their own weakness, Thomas. Yours is the ship. Mine, the camera."

"Ladies, gentlemen," he indicates to the couple, "Mr. Daniel Marvin and his wife, Mary Marvin."

Sherlock meanwhile reaches out for the camera curiously as others, who have heard of him shake hands with them.

"How does this work?" he mutters to himself, but Mary steps in.

"You see, you only—" but she stops when she sees the glare on his face, "Pardon me sir, but I was only helping you out!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sets down to examine the camera. He's quite having the time of his life, getting to touch and experience machines that he has never seen before. Marvin's retreats back to the camera, "Would you like to be filmed, sir?"

Mary lets out an audible sound of dissent, but Sherlock smiles a little, at the novel experience, "I think I would."

"And if you wouldn't mind, me too," says Mr. Andrews, smiling merrily, eyes twinkling with excitement.

Mycroft rolls his eyes, while watching his brother with an amused expression on his face as Victor turns away, not interested in the little trip at all. For him, the tour is only a way to gain Sherlock back. Several others join in too, wanting to be captured by the camera.

"But strangers in  _our_  film, Daniel," she says, but she stops just as her husband starts speaking to his newest cast.

"Alright, gentlemen, look up at the ship, that's it. You're amazed! You just can't believe how big it is!" He gets into the director persona, completely forgetting that Mr. Andrews is the one who had designed the ship, "Like a mountain. Way to go!"

Sherlock playfully does a bad pantomime of awe, hands raised, just for the hell of it. Mary lets out another sigh, which causes Sherlock to glare daggers at her.

"Do you know that you're the worst actress of all time?" he snaps, saying what Marvin hasn't been able to say all these years. He tries to look slightly affronted and rushes forward to console his wife. Mycroft gives him a murderous look.

"Can we move this along please?" Victor is clearly exasperated and wants to get it over with.

"Er. . . yes, sorry," says Mr. Andrews, face flushing slightly with embarrassment, "I got carried away. This way please."

 

* * *

 

John, walking with determination, is followed closely by Greg and Mike. He quickly climbs the steps to B-Deck and steps over the gate separating Third from Second Class. Being dumped back into Third Class with a (polite) warning to never come back has no effect or impede on his energy or his resolution to see Sherlock once more, to tell him not to go back to what he tries so studiously to be.

"He's a God amongst mortal men," Mike protests, "and an Omega. There's no denyin'. But he's in another world, Johnny, forget him. He left you, he's closed the door. You'll lose one of your limbs for this."

John moves furtively to the wall below the A-Deck promenade, aft, disregarding his words. Mr. Andrews had said that Sherlock would be with the tour group. It wouldn't be all too difficult to find him

"It was them, not him. I saw despair in his eyes and I don't want to see it no more," he glances around the deck, "Ready, go!"

Mike shakes his head resignedly and puts his hands together, crouching down. John steps into Mike's hands and gets boosted up to the next deck, where he scrambles awkwardly over the railing, onto the First Class deck. He slips into the coat and the hat onto his head and continues his search, looking for the tour group.

"He's not being logical, I tell ya!"

Greg leads him away, "Love is not logical, my friend."

 

* * *

 

"And why do you have two steering wheels?" asks Sherlock.

"Well, we use this one near the shore. S'cuse me."

Harold Bride, the 21 year old Junior Wireless Operator, hustles in and skirts around Andrews' tour group to hand a Marconigram to Captain Smith.

"Excuse me, sir. Another ice warning. This one's from the 'Baltic'."

"Thank you, Bride."

Smith glances at the message, and then nonchalantly puts it in his pocket. He nods reassuringly to Mycroft and the group.

"Not to worry, gents. Quite normal for this time of year. In fact, we're speeding up. I've just ordered the last boilers lit—"

Mycroft's eyes narrow at that, but he doesn't condescend to argue, "Oh, yes of course—"

"This place is a floating pool of icebergs," Sherlock interrupts, "Suppose one were to come in its path . . ."

"Sherlock—"

"—the ship is too big to be steered around it with precision!"

Captain Smith looks amused at Sherlock's insistence. Mr. Andrews smiles uncomfortably. It's obvious that even he doesn't agree with speeding up without running in the engines properly, but, "I think, young Sherlock, that the sailing be better left to the Captain's good offices and years of experience, yes? Now, pay attention, ladies and gentlemen, to the engine telegraphs. They are connected to the telegraphs in the engine room by pneumatic mechanism where our Chief Engineer Mr. Bell maintains the sync between the engine room and the wheelhouse, and between the engine room and the boiler rooms. You'll understand more when we go down to the engine rooms, however, I must caution you, ladies, it can get a bit too noisy downstairs."

The others look around at engine telegraphs. Victor glances at his pocket-watch. The process is taking too long. Sherlock frowns and looks away at the sky, watching seagulls in their flight. Sometimes he wishes if he could also just spread out his arms and fly.

Andrews murmurs a small apology for taking too long, before motioning the group toward the door. They exit just as Second Officer Charles Lightoller comes out of the chartroom, stopping next to First Officer Lt. William Murdoch.

"Did we ever find those binoculars for the lookouts?"

"Haven't seen them since Southampton."

 

* * *

 

Andrews leads the group back from the bridge along the boat deck, after telling them all about how to work the davits.

"Mr. Andrews," says Sherlock, "Are you sure that there are 2200 people aboard?"

He looks slightly curious, "Yes, of course. Why?"

"And the capacity of the ship is over three thousand, am I correct?"

"Absolutely. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I see that there are only twenty lifeboats, out of which six are Emergency low-capacity ones. Plus, taking in account the frenzy that might cause one or two boats to be rendered useless during the event of a sinking—"

"I see your point, young Sherlock," Mr. Andrews cuts in, not able to bear to think of the cruel thought of his ship sinking, "First of all, if we went by the maritime laws, you'll see that this ship has more lifeboat accommodations than legally required. But, taking into account the huge number of people aboard, I put in these new type davits, like I told you, which can take an extra row of boats here."

"New type?" he inquired sharply, "You mean the crew haven't had a drill yet?"

"No, I'm afraid, not all of them. You see, the Titanic's launch date was already delayed, and Mr. Ismay," he lowers his voice, "Well, he was very anxious with the coal miners' strike in London causing a possibly longer delay. I had proposed more boats, but it was thought by certain some," he gives him a you-know-who look, "that the deck would look too cluttered. Also, I had suggested that the watertight bulkheads be extended till B Deck instead of E Deck as it is now. Considering the passenger accommodations. . . I was overruled."

Victor slaps the side of one of the boats, "Waste of deck space as it is, on an unsinkable ship!"

"Well, it does give you the impression of being at sea," says Mycroft.

"Try being underwater, Mycroft. The sea would feel splendid there."

Andrews chuckles, "Have no fear, young Sherlock! The Titanic is as nearly perfect as human brains can make her."

Sherlock makes an acknowledging 'hmm' at that, running in his mind the various design flaws he has accumulated till that point.

"She's all the lifeboat you need. Now keep heading aft. The next stop is the engine room."

Sherlock doesn't say anything to counter it. He likes Mr. Andrews and his unpretentiousness, he decides.

As they are passing Boat 7, a gentlemen turns from the rail and walks up behind the group. It is John. He taps Sherlock on the arm and he turns, eyes widening in surprise. He motions and cuts Sherlock away from the group toward a door which John holds open. Sherlock's heart is raging in his chest and he knows he shouldn't be close to any Alpha, let alone the Alpha who had almost courted him, but John ushers him away and Sherlock can do nothing but be led, even if it is partially against his wishes.

They duck into the gymnasium and John closes the door behind him, and glances out through the ripple-glass window to the starboard rail, where the gym instructor is chatting up the woman who was riding the bike. Sherlock and John are alone in the room. Suddenly it is a lot smaller that it should be. Sherlock looks for any other exits. The only one is the one which John has blocked. Even though the Alpha is shorter than him, Sherlock doubts he'll be ever able to combat with John and win with every bone in him intact.

John leads him inside silently and corners him against a window through which lights refracts him. Sherlock knows he should leave, lest the pre-Heat start again. John's scent seems much stronger and alluring than Victor's and damn his biology to a thousand hells for not having a sense of grace or propriety.

"Dunno why I keep ending up here in the gym," he says jokingly, trying to lift Sherlock's mood. The latter does not meet his eyes. John's presence, his liveliness, his eyes, his words, they all unnerve Sherlock. How can a person be so unpretentious? How can a person be so frank and still an expert at being so covert during the dinner party? At the same time? How can his words, so simple and innocent and less, deliver a mightier blow than Mycroft's best thought-out responses could?

"Mycroft kidnapped you that night," is all Sherlock is able to say.

"Said he'd. . . well, never mind," John shakes his head, "I don't give a rat's arse about what he says anyway. He's just bulky; not that frightening."

John speech manages to make Sherlock smile a little bit. He can only imagine Mycroft's response to that, "John, I—"

"Are you alright now?" he interrupts, "Mrs. Brown told me that you were ill. Was it that night, the party? You smell different. . . Beta-ish. Is it because of the illness?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow momentarily at John for even thinking that a party could make him ill, but at the mention of Mrs. Brown's name, the incidents of the previous day come back to him, haunting him and making him sick to the core. Revulsion rises through his gut like bile. With a sharp intake of breath, he collects himself, remembering his brother's very real threat. John looks at him sadly.

"Don't. . . Sherlock," he says when Sherlock regains his composure with some effort, "you. . . can't you be yourself just for once?"

"I am myself," says he, but he knows that John is right. Sherlock's heart is raging in his chest. The very sight of John, of his tender eyes, the way he keeps his heart on a sleeve. John sighs sadly, stretching his lips in a completely unconvincing shadow of understanding.

"No, you aren't. This isn't you—" but he's interrupted by Sherlock before he can say anything.

"John," Sherlock takes him by his shoulders, trying to hammer some sense into him, "you don't understand. That night," he closes his eyes as the terrible words form in his mouth, "that night was a mistake. Forget about it."

Sherlock hates himself when he sees John looking so utterly lost and wounded. His eyes narrow in disbelief, but then the crease between his brows disappear, "No, it wasn't," he urges, eyes begging not to say things like that, "You know it. I saw it in your eyes. And I still do. Yeah, you might think that—that pompous excuse of a brother of yours can throw me overboard," Sherlock flinches at how accurate he is, "I don't care, Sherlock. I—I know I'm poor, and I have nothing in my pocket and I—I understand that. I—just—"

He draws closer to Sherlock, and Sherlock gives a start of panic, but he composes himself by not looking into John's eyes, his words as frank as a child's. Sherlock did not even know that such people existed.

"—Sherlock, I won't ask you to. . . well, look I know what happened between us. But I know, you. . . you were happy down there. I've seen far too much sadness to recognise a happy man when I see one. I'm not saying that you—well, I have nothing to offer you and I won't—"

"John, my bro—"

"No, wait! Let me try and get this out. You have all these dreams, and that, that—Victor isn't worth you," he gently cups Sherlock's cheek with his hand, cherishing the feel of the smooth skin under his rough one as he softly strokes his cheek with his thumb. Sherlock looks into his eyes and wants to keep his own palm on his warm hand but he doesn't, "He's never going to see what I see, Sherlock."

"John," he breaks away, "my brother, and more worryingly, Victor isn't afraid to play dirty when he wants to. You must know that."

"I know! I saw that the day before yesterday! But I can't let go, Sherlock. I'm involved now. You jump, I jump, remember? I can't turn away without knowing that you're goin' to be alright. . . that's all I'm trying to say. I won't ever forget you. I know it hasn't been long, we haven't known each other for a long time and. . . erm, whether you," John struggles around for words, "make me a part of your life or not, just. . . Sherlock, don't—"

Sherlock feels like he has a big lump in his throat. John is ready to risk everything for him, even his own life and everything he had worked for, just for him. He is so open, so real, without any trace of a deceit. And there's that feeling again, that overwhelming feeling of what they could have together, what they could be together. And it's too strong for him to handle. He feels like he's going to have a God-to-honest meltdown. He wants John to help, but he can't let him.

"You're just letting me watch them tear your soul out of you, bit by bit. And don't tell me you're fine," he quickly says as he sees Sherlock open his mouth to reply, "I know you're not. You  _have_  to break free, Sherlock because, sooner or later, that fire in your eyes that I love about you, it's going to blow out. And I can't let that happen to you. I won't turn away leaving you back to square one."

For one second, Sherlock wants to give in. After all there's truth in John's words. He had had a dress rehearsal of his life the previous day. That's what it is going to be like, he thinks, and seeing John having the same realisation is frightening too. He knows he's going to die, maybe not right away but one day, he surely will pass away. He will keep screaming, and there will be no one to look up. If he jumped off, there will be no one coming after him. . . no one but John. But then he straightens up, his face painfully twisting into something resembling normalcy.

"I can't let anything happen to you," he whispers.

John looks down, relief flooding through him at Sherlock's insinuation, and takes Sherlock's hand in his own, kissing it and squeezing it slightly, "I'll be alright, Sherlock. I'm a survivor. Just don't—go back. . . please."

He pleads with his eyes. Sherlock tries to speak, but words, for the first time, don't come to him. He wishes for this heart-wrenching moment to end and never end as he gazes into John's blue irises. Finally, he swallows and manages to mutter, looking down at the floor.

"I have to go. For your sake, for  _both_  of our sakes."

And he extracts his hand from John's grip, hating every second of the loss of contact, and walks away, leaving him disappointed.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock joins the rest of the group near the Marconi Room. He has lost his interest in the tour as Mr. Andrews shows an awed audience the top of the Grand Staircase.

"Well, then, ladies and gentlemen, our tour concludes for the day. We shall pick up from here, tomorrow, eleven in the morning after breakfast, shall we?"

Most of them nod with fervour. It seems that the small group has had some more additions as the day passed, because there's also Mr. Guggenheim with Madame Aubert, along with the Strauss couple and the Wideners. The men retreat to their own company while Andrea takes Sherlock's arm, forcibly leading him to the First Class Lounge for tea. This is what his life was going to be, to be led around on a leash, like he is some animal not to be left loose.

"Oh, hello Andrea," Lucille and Noëlle greet them, "and young Sherlock. I trust you're feeling well today, given that you had a lovely tour of the ship."

The First Class Lounge is most elegant room on the ship, done in Louis Quinze Versaille style. Sherlock does not even bother to grace the ladies with a nod as he sits on the divan and unfolds the napkin over his lap. He does not feel the urge to deduce anything about them as he sits silently, back straight, not a finger tapping on the table, lost in thoughts. He no longer has the urge to tell them that his first name is 'William', not 'young'.

John's eyes haunt him. He has never cared so deeply for any other person, not after only three days. Deeply enough that he chose to throw himself into the pit just to keep him safe from Victor's wrath.  The feeling that John is ready to give up everything just to be with him, just to save him, even though it isn't up to him, is overwhelming and nothing short of scary.

"Where are Mycroft and Victor, dear?" Lucille asks Andrea, trying not to look insulted by Sherlock not acknowledging her presence.

"Smoking room, of course."

"Well, it's nice enough without the men, we can talk about something more worthwhile than politics and the Supreme Court ad Pennsylvania! But tell me, Sherlock," he whips around at the mention of his name, "Will you not be inviting us?. . . I mean, the invitations have indeed reached us, but this is your wedding, Sherlock! Your big day!"

"I've never seen a traditional Alpha-Omega wedding before, Lucille," the Countess says happily, "I've only seen two, and all of them were of Bonded couples. Well you know how progressive the Alpha-Omega couples have become," she shakes her head, "They're way too anxious for the Bond."

"I was my Omega cousin's bridesmaid once. The Alphas don't seem to believe in the bad luck for the groom seeing the bride before the wedding," she tutts and then lowers her voice, thinking that Sherlock can't hear her, "It's the downfall of the society, Omegas, taking away every Alpha before he can even set his eyes upon a decent maiden. I'm so very glad to finally witnessing a traditional marriage. Victor is a very honourable man."

Sherlock simply sighs at the mixed messages, "Well, someone is looking forward to it."

Noëlle and Lucille both look quite shocked to hear that.

"Why, my dear," says Lucille, prying as always, "Aren't you content?"

Noëlle interrupts before Sherlock can answer venomously, "Everyone says that, young Sherlock. Then you get married and stability and bliss follow."

He wants to snort at her last words, but he finds that he can't. What was the point of ridiculing it if that was what was going to happen to him? He gives them a terse nod and they return back to their conversation, deciding that Sherlock was still not in a mood to talk.

"And let me tell you a very scandalous. . ." the ladies gossip. Sherlock drifts away, releasing the tether that keeps him grounded and floating back to his thoughts.

At the far end of the room, he watches the man he is going to spend the rest of his life with: ruthless, stony-faced, selfish and frankly terrifying with his cool and calm exterior. Victor Trevor is someone who quite resembles Mycroft, except Mycroft would never hurt a hair upon his head. Victor is unpredictable, uncompromising, and his composed business persona is something that renders him much more dangerous than a typical hot-headed Alpha. He can go to any lengths to attain what he had set his eye upon.

Never hurt a hair upon his head! Mycroft had done much worse than that.

Hatred bubbles through him at the thought of Victor's hands all over his body, claiming him like a prize. The rational part of his brain tells him that there's no point in revenge. But the vengeful side of him screams like a wounded beast bound in chains, to agree to go back to him for the night and throttle him in his sleep, or give him a nigh undetectable poison.

Not poison, it had to be slow and torturous for him, for years and years. A monster like him did not deserve a quick death.

Or maybe crash his stocks? Sell them to his rivals secretly? For that, he would have to be married first. And that was always a completely unacceptable notion. He could not live with him, not with that dirty, lustful gaze all over him whenever he would be in Heat. Last afternoon was only a dress rehearsal for what was to come if he married him.

And then, realisation sinks in. What John was trying to convince him and what he already knew, but was too conflicted to act upon, torn between sentiments. What he had been telling his brother all along.

 _I own you Sherlock_ , comes the voice of the Victor inside him, in his mind, his terrible voice trying to suck him back into the abyss that the Bible called Hell.

_If you think otherwise, then you're only kidding yourself._

_You're pathetic_ , he tells the Victor inside him,  _God save the woman or the Omega who marries you._ There's no point diverting his energies towards the revenge that would come sooner or later. Not when he could do something more worthwhile.

His heart hammers powerfully in his chest as he remembers the feel of John's palm against his cheek. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat and compose himself—

Why was he composing himself? What for?

Could a person exchange one life for another?

A caterpillar turns into a butterfly. If a brainless insect could do it, why not he?

To hell with Mycroft and his status. Decision made, he calmly and deliberately turns his teacup over, spilling the now cold tea all over himself. The ladies gasp.

"Oh dear," says he, "look what I've done."


	10. Learning To Fly

The Titanic cuts through water like glass as John stares at the ocean, leaning over the apex of the bow railing, his favourite spot. Dusk is falling and the sky is painting itself blue and red and orange and purple, preparing itself for a marvellous sunset. But John isn't affected by the beauty of his surroundings or the din of the rush of water below. Nothing mattered to him as he feels the helpless feeling of having tried hard, yet having accomplished nothing. He closes his eyes, letting the chill wind clear his head.

"John."

He straightens up and turns around to see Sherlock standing there. He's a little surprised to see stains of tea on his otherwise pristine suit.

His eyes focus on Sherlock's face. He had heard sure footsteps behind him, not cared to turn and look to whom they belonged for he had assumed they could not belong to Sherlock. But they. . . did.

Sherlock's face seems to glow at the sight of him, a fondness creeping into the edge of the most honest smile John might have seen in him. Suddenly he is so ageless, so divine that John cannot believe how he, a vagabond, came upon this elegant Omega. Cannot believe that he was so stupid to have believed that Sherlock, in search for true happiness, would come away with him.

Sherlock shrugs, and grins, as if not able to believe himself, "I. . . well—you know. . ."

John stills. Sherlock couldn't possibly have said that. But everything else, every second-guessing is ruled out when Sherlock grins, as if he were the stupid one for not seeing this before. And no more words are needed. John feels his face breaking into a smile.

He knows. He should always have known.

Sherlock looks down, forming his story. John waits with bated breath, but already knows that Sherlock is only making it up. Somehow, the sight of him always gets him, "Your mates, they said—"

"Shhh. . ." he puts a finger to his own lips, and then extends one hand forward, leaning towards Sherlock, "Come here."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, and John can see in his face, he's thinking, metal turning gears, as to what John's intention with him might be. John knows as per custom he should be the one to go to mark his Omega with his scent, but he has far more important things on his mind than playing Alpha-Omega with the man who has put his entire trust in him. John knows he is like a last resort to Sherlock, but anything, anything for him.

With slow, but sure steps that he takes towards John, battling against the cool breeze and the roar of the ocean breaking below the hull, part by part the smile fades and Sherlock begins to exhibit the signs of nervousness that John feels. Somehow, it feels like all the suffering that John has had in his life pays off when he sees Sherlock walking towards him like he's walking the aisle for him. A brief whiff of his scent hits him like a virtual wave and John realises the change in it, what it had been two days ago and what it is now.

John blinks to clear it, trying not to let Sherlock realise that he's noticed it. His heart speeds up at the thought, at the very magnitude of it, what anymore proximity with Sherlock would mean.

Nevertheless, Sherlock comes near him, and smiles. Somehow, the noise seems to decrease in its intensity. John's eyes drink the sight of him in: his otherwise pallid cheeks are pink with the chilly wind, his curls blow wildly about his face, dishevelled and perfect. Anticipation pools in John's lower stomach. He doesn't have to look around to check if they're alone. In a world where someone like Sherlock existed, there could be nobody else for him.

"Give me your hand," John all but whispers, mesmerised. Sherlock's eyes, full of newfound hope, are now clouded with doubt again. He hesitates, contemplates, and then gives away his right hand in the anticipation of a kiss perhaps.

"Now close your eyes," he whispers, gently pulling him towards him. He's still somehow audible over the din. Sherlock's eyes grow wide with surprise at his request, making John chuckle.

"I asked you to close your eyes, you idiot!" He remarks, anointing it with Sherlock's favourite word, "Not make them bigger."

Sherlock heaves an all-suffering sigh as he closes his eyes, trusting the man in front of him. John turns away, urging him forward, the way the ship is going, with a hand in the small of his back, holding onto him. Sherlock's breath catches as he steps up onto the apex, the other hand feeling for the railing. This one time, his innate sense of trust in John surpasses his curiosity, and he keeps his eyes resolutely closed.

John reaches out to take the restricting scarf off his neck and puts it in the pocket of his greatcoat, before taking it off his shoulders as well. Sherlock wonders what he is doing, but does not question. He stays unnaturally quiet and patient as John tugs the suit jacket away from him, and dumps the garments on the floor.

"People are going to talk now," he says jokingly, "Me taking an innocent Omega's clothes off in here."

Sherlock smiles, "They do little else."

John smiles into Sherlock's hair, taking in large amounts of Sherlock's slowly intensifying pseudo-Estrus scent now. He knows he's a contributing factor to its strength, but he isn't capable of caring. The forefront of his savage Alpha instincts is screaming _my mate, my Bonded, my Omega_. and John is far overpowered by the sensation of Sherlock's scent flooding his olfactory senses and seeping into his skin, aware of his own body rejoicing at the reunion with that of his mate after the previous night.

"Now hold on to the railing," John is directly behind him now and he guides his other hand to the railing, "Keep your eyes closed. Don't peek."

"I'm not."

John swallows, controlling the Alpha instincts inside him as he smells his own scent mixing in with that of Sherlock's, the dim arousal of scenting finally seeping through his body. He kicks away the temptation to lean into Sherlock's brow and smell him, and instead places him hands on his waist, with only fabric between them, preventing the contact between skin and skin, "Okay, now. . . step up onto the rail."

Sherlock takes the cable in his grip as he steps up. John follows suit behind him, stepping up two rods so that he is level with him. Sherlock lets go of the rail, balancing himself. His heart starts pounding when he realises that one slip can send both of them tumbling underwater. But somehow, that thought isn't as terrifying as it should have been. John takes his free hand, squeezing it slightly.

"Hold on. Keep your eyes closed."

Sherlock can tell that they were standing up on the rail, doing God-knows-what. But he still doesn't see the point.

"Do you trust me?" John asks, already knowing the answer.

"With everything." And beyond. There's so much to say, so much to confess, so much to be sorry for, but they don't say much. The roar of the ocean below is nothing compared to the noise of all that they're not saying.

He gently reaches out for Sherlock's arms and raises them slowly, uncertainly. He is not sure whether Sherlock would appreciate his gesture, but he outstretches them anyway. Sherlock frowns and smiles, still not able to understand why they were doing whatever they were doing. He turns his head halfway several times to ask John but doesn't say anything. He simply goes along with him. When John lowers him arms, Sherlock's arms stay up. . . like wings. He knows that John would not let him fall if he were to lose his balance all of a sudden. He knows that John would come after him. He does not need anyone to tell him that.

John wraps an arm around Sherlock's waist tentatively, slowly relaxing as Sherlock leans into his touch, their hearts still pounding furiously. The feeling of closeness is just. . . good, not frightening anymore. The intermixing of their scents as John fits his chin snugly in the hollow between Sherlock's neck and shoulder more so, but Sherlock doesn't complain. The Beta scent that John had smelled earlier on Sherlock is thankfully long gone, and so is John's trepidation about indulging in such an intimate gesture as scenting in an incriminatingly public place.

"Okay," John whispers in his ears, "Open your eyes."

Sherlock gasps. There is nothing in his field of vision but water. There is no ship under them at all, just the two of them soaring like birds, like the seagulls around them. The Atlantic unrolls toward them, a hammered copper shield under a dusk sky, celebrating them with the magnificent sunset. There is only the wind, the hiss of the water fifty feet below, Sherlock's heart so close to his and their intermixing scents.

"I'm flying, John! See!" he cries out in excitement and wonder.

"I know, Sherlock," John says softly, "I believe you."

"I'm flying. . .we're flying. . ."

Sherlock leans forward, arching his back, revelling in the moment. John wraps his hands around his waist to steady him, rejoicing at his happiness, his deep laughter, the sound of freedom and the feel of the chilly wind blowing through his hair. The feeling is unearthly, thrilling, something Sherlock has never felt before. The seagulls join them in their flight, one last time before the sun slipped down the horizon, just for them.

It's his first taste of what being free is like, and by Jove, it is exhilarating.

Sherlock closes his eyes, letting the wind wash over him, feeling himself floating weightless far above the sea, letting wild imagination take over cold reason for the first time. He smiles dreamily, then leans back, gently pressing his back against John's chest. He pushes forward slightly against him, resting his chin in the hollow between the side of his face and his shoulder again, and this time he can tell that Sherlock is registering it and he's still not complaining.

Sherlock wants to scream, to jump like a child, he feels like he's on the top of the world, towering over the sea, invincible with John behind him, always to hold him, to steady him. Anything he wants to do just isn't enough, not enough to match this surreal and yet lifelike moment. His family, his name, his fiancée, his whole life vanishes in thin air, all deleted scraps, awaiting disposal from his mind. There's John, only John and his scent and the mark and proof of how they consummated their courting. No one else. Nothing else

Slowly John raises his hands too, arms outstretched, and they meet Sherlock's. . . fingertips gently touching.

"It's a crime," he whispers.

"Hmm?"

"You being a tall and lanky Omega. Puts a strain on me, just to make these bloody fingers meet."

Sherlock giggles softly. "I'm not going to make it easy for you, John," he teases, "you jumped headfirst into dangerous territory."

"Oh, are you? I'm always up for a challenge, love."

He extends his arms a little more till their fingers touched and intertwined in each others. Moving slowly, their fingers caress through and around each other sensually, like the bodies of two lovers. It is nothing like the hormone-induced daze that Estrus is bringing in. It's deeper, much more, inexpressible, surpassing all logic. John slowly lowers their arms, till they're at the level of his waist as his fingertips sweep gently over Sherlock's arms. He buries his face into his curls, letting his scent wash over him, until his cheek is against his ear. A slight brush creates the dangerous amount of sparks alight, making Sherlock turn around, until his lips are close to his.

"You've scented me," is all Sherlock whispers. John breathes in their shared air saturated with the sweetness of their scent. Sherlock breathes in deeply.

"It seems that I have," John smiles and leans in for it.

Turning further around, Sherlock leans in tentatively. His last thing he sees is John's eyes closing, his blond hair now turned copper, and his kind, radiant smile. John finds his mouth with his, wrapping his arms around him lovingly from behind. Lips meet, and they kiss with his head turned and tilted back, surrendering to him, to sentiment, to the inevitable. They kiss, slowly and tremulously, and then with building passion and frenzy.

John and the ship seem to merge into one being, lifting him, buoying him forward on a journey, soaring onward into a night without fear. The ship isn't a slave ship anymore. It is not even a ship anymore. Titanic has set him free. John has set him free from his gilded cage.

They break away, noses still touching, hearts pounding, to catch a breath. John smiles, not wanting to say anything, not wanting to ruin the moment. Sherlock's eyes travel upwards. In the crow's nest, the two lookouts are gawking at them, maybe at their kissing, maybe at their public display of affection, or at their daredevilry at kissing in public and that too at the apex of the bow. John follows his gaze, and waves at the two lookouts happily. They burst into laughter as the lookouts look away, slightly embarrassed.

"We're. . . so stupid, aren't we?" John pants, completely out of breath. For he is, not having made his move that night itself. Sherlock leans in again, making their foreheads touch. The scenting was over.

"Well. . ." he's just as out of breath as John, "I don't. . . know about you. . . but. . . I'm definitely. . . not stupid!"

John giggles like a schoolgirl and plants a chaste kiss on his lips before leaning over the bow again, pointing into the distance and grinning, "Look, I can see the Statue Of Liberty already!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, linking their hands together, "Really? Is she facing you, or away from you?"

"It's so small!" He protests, "I can't really make out."

"Show-off," he mutters.

"Says the one who shows off!"

In the glassy bow-wave two dolphins appear, under the water, running fast just in front of the steel blade of the bow.

"Look!" John points them out to Sherlock.

They rush ahead of the liner, competing with her speed. They do it for the sheer joy and exultation of motion. They watch the dolphins and grin. The majestic sea-creatures breach, jumping clear of the water and then dive back, crisscrossing in front of the bow, dancing ahead of the juggernaut. Competing for a last time before they retreat to their depths, leaving the ship's company. Sherlock pulls back from the apex but John's hands keep him in his place.

"What?"

He points at the purple and orange dusk sky, "Sunset."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "It'll stay for another four minutes and thirty six seconds."

"Oh," John grins at him, "how do you know? Calculated the speed of the sun going down? Did some weird math?"

"Nothing of that sort, doctor."

John crosses his arms over his chest, trying to look offended and failing miserably, "You making fun of me now?"

"I told you," he smirks, "I'm not going to make it easy on you."

"Neither am I," he pulls him down for another heated kiss. Sherlock leans down eagerly, wrapping him arms around his shoulders. This time, the kiss is more awkward because John has never kissed anyone taller than him and likewise, Sherlock has never kissed anyone shorter than him. But nevertheless, they were together and that was all that mattered now. They fumble down, giggling again and break away, stumbling down the bow and back to the well deck, after collecting Sherlock's greatcoat.

"Your scent's fading," John says suddenly.

"Yeah, it'll return," Sherlock doesn't look at him, "later when. . .you know."

John blushes to the roots of his hair at the insinuation. Although an Alpha, he's never given seduction much thought, done it once or twice on instinct with women, but never with an Omega—let alone Sherlock. And to think that the consequences of scenting Sherlock would soon result into a full-blown Estrus cycle instead of the relatively tame pseudo-Estrus Sherlock had been going through and seduction would be childish compared to the magnitude of Alpha-Omega mating. . .

Convenient that the scent is fading with the conclusion of pseudo-Estrus and will return later. An Omega in Heat and outside his safehouse could shake the entire ship.

Sherlock will be going into an Estrus cycle a few hours later, John thinks, still high on the residual scent from Sherlock's brow on his. John doesn't know what to make of it. It's been only three days, and even though his decision is made, he isn't sure about Sherlock.

Suddenly, Sherlock sees the Marvin couple and points at them, "Have you ever seen a camera?"

John clears his head. He has to stay with Sherlock now, keep him off-limits, his inner Alpha screams but John gives it a kick to the shin, "I see it now. Come on!"

Daniel Marvin is still stuck with filming his wife, giving her patient and repeated instructions.

"Look at the sunset, dear! Your heart yearns for him. This is the last time, and you don't want to live anymore. Bring that in your face, sweetheart!"

Suddenly, John shoots into the shot and strikes a hero-sort-of pose at the rail next to Mary, chest puffed, chin up. Mary bursts out laughing. John pulls Sherlock into the picture and makes him pose as well.

Marvin grins and starts yelling and gesturing, silently thanking God for getting him a better cast for his beloved camera.

"Woohoo! Let's do this, fellas! Mary, by the rail, sad, depressed, crying. Blond," he mentions to John, making Sherlock chuckle, "freeze in a position, left hand stretched towards Mary. Other leg pointing towards her. Express helplessness and horror. Otter face," he points at Sherlock, making both John and Mary laugh out like idiots as Sherlock's face drops and transforms into a snarl, "between the two of them, like a theatrical villain. Separating them. Look down at Blond, body language triumphant, eyes glinting with menace. Put that coat on!"

The three of them pose while Daniel Marvin captures them against the gloriously blazing sunset.

"Now," he barks, making them jump, "Blond, on your knees, plead with your hands clasped. Mary, out of the picture now. Otter face—"

"I'm not 'Otter Face'!" He demands petulantly, "I'm Sherlock!"

"Yes yes," says he dismissively, his director persona not giving a damn about what Sherlock felt or said, "Stand, turn your head in bored disdain. You're Blond's father. Make your face 'no can do'."

"You're a horrible director!" Sherlock declares, as if passing a verdict.

Marvin grins, "Yeah, I know. I get that all the time."

"Why're you doing photo-shoots?"

"Bad director, huh?" says Marvin challengingly, "You do it then!"

Sherlock eagerly takes the camera, his plan successful. He cranks it up, while Mary Marvin and John have a western shoot-out. John winks and leers into the lens, twirling an air moustache.

John sits down on the steps leading to the bow, pretending to be some sort of a Sultan, while Mary comes up to him, pantomiming fanning him like a slave girl. He winks at Sherlock, with the aim of making him a little jealous, which surprisingly works. Sherlock grabs John and walks away rudely, leaving John to do the apologizing. He doubles up with laughter on seeing his indignant face.

"Very funny, John. I can barely contain myself."

John doesn't counter with anything, still shaking with laughter, "Otter face!"

"At any rate, it's better than 'Blond' and 'Hamish'!" he snaps, but John still keeps giggling until Sherlock gives in too.

"You know, people are going to think that we're mad!"

"Of course, we are! I'm a man who jumps off steamer ships, and you're a man who jumps after those who jump off ships. Any other description would be a lie," and they end up laughing again.

"Mr. Holmes!" comes a voice from behind them.

"Shit!" John exclaims and looks behind involuntarily, "Your brother's sent the  _bloody_  master-at-arms after us!"

Sherlock laughs out loud, "No, John. He's here because of the Jennifer Wilson case. If he had to send anyone it would have been Mr. Gregson. Victor's valet," he supplies helpfully, upon seeing John's confused face.

"Mr. Holmes, about that—"

"Yes, yes. The Wilsons' case. The statement. May we trouble you tomorrow? You'll have them under arrest till we reach New York, is that right?"

"Yes, but the—"

"Good evening, sir. We're getting late for. . . dinner!"

With that Sherlock sweeps out of there with John, leaving the master-at-arms bemused at what had just happened.

". . .Anyway, speaking of arrests," his face lights up, like he's plotting something bad in his mind, "How much apprenticeship have you had working as an assistant to various Practitioners?"

"Not much. I just know how to do stitches, first aid and stuff. Couldn't manage a permanent job," John frowns, "Why?"

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and John make their way into the gymnasium, picking the lock effortlessly. John updates his profile in his mind again: conman, pickpocket, safecracker, violinist, lock pick. . .

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure that you get enough medical practice aboard the ship!" says he with a wink. John isn't entirely sure by what he means.

A few minutes ago, Sherlock had borrowed an electric torch from one of the littler seamen, using his commanding voice to intimidate the man. John had no idea what Sherlock planned to do with an electric torch in a gym, clearly when it was time for dinner. He sets down on every machine, setting to work with a small screwdriver and pliers he had. . . borrowed, shall we say, from one of the engineers rushing through the Boat Deck. It takes John a long time to process that Sherlock is loosening the screws off every exercise machine. John pulls him away.

"Sherlock!" He cannot help the smile which creeps up on his face, "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Told you," he confesses innocently, "getting you some medical practice. There aren't enough doctors aboard, only three, including you."

"But Sherlock, those who. . . they'll fall down and break. . . something!"

He frowns, "That's the point. You get to treat them. Some medical experience on the Titanic. You could put that in your résumé."

"No—"

"Look," he motions at the stationary cycle, letting him on his real intentions, "Mycroft pretends that he doesn't care about his weight. But I know that he works out every morning, before everyone arrives. Tomorrow morning, he sits on here, and falls down with a mighty crash with at least a broken hip. Just imagine!"

John bursts into laughter at his idea, "God. . . you're demented, you know that?"

Sherlock leans in for a small kiss in the darkness, "That's an awfully good pickup line, Doctor Watson. Where'd you get it?"

John tiptoes up to return it, "Got the inspiration from an Omega who tried to jump off the back of a ship."

He swallows when the horrible memory comes back to John, and the person associated with him.

In Pseudo-Estrus, John remembers, and suddenly his "illness" strikes him, That's why he was indoors yesterday. And naturally, another thought crosses his mind.

Had Victor known?

He swings his arms around his neck, watching the shadows and the white light from the electric torch dance across his regal face. Sherlock leans in again, this time till he's at John's level. But instead of a kiss, John buries himself in his chest, inhaling him, making sure that he was there for real, with him. He recalls Sherlock's desperation from the afternoon. He simply couldn't think of it. He couldn't say it.

He feels the extraordinarily powerful throbbing in Sherlock's chest. He didn't need to think of it. He doesn't not want to remind Sherlock of it by telling him.

"John."

He pulls back and looks up into his eyes. Even in the dark, it was like staring into the sun and the desire to look away was immense, but even as he feels himself flush he keeps his eyes on Sherlock, grounding himself to reality while letting himself float. Something comes over him as he gently presses Sherlock against the wall.

"I'm going to kiss you again," John breathes out, and Sherlock's breath hitches as John runs a thumb on Sherlock's lower lip. So precious, so delectable. If Sherlock consents, he can undress him right now and mount him and take him and Bond with him.

"I will kiss that mouth of yours," John is close, his mouth ghosting over Sherlock's lips and Sherlock looks back at him with arousal evident in his eyes, "that lip of yours, I will kiss it and I will touch it with my tongue and then the upper one."

The air around them is thickening again and John realises that triggering Sherlock's Estrus is entirely in his hands. Whatever he does, his Omega's body would follow.

"And then I will bite into it, take the sweetness for myself," he leans in, closes his eyes. It doesn't even occur to him that the door is open and the gym is the worst place to make love. Sherlock closes his eyes and thinks of flying. So precious, so. . .

"Hey, why's the door to the gym open?" comes a raspy voice from outside. Sherlock and John break apart instantly, with Sherlock almost jumping to switch the light off. Suddenly, someone throws the door open. They sneak into a dark corner as the seaman looks around for any intruders.

"Through here," John whispers breathlessly, pointing to the open door. They rise from the nook and make it stealthily to the door, only to be spotted by another seaman outside.

"They're in here, Frank!"

John looks back. They're pointing towards them.

"Quick! Take my hand!" Sherlock cries out and they break into a run in the direction of the First Class Entrance, the rush of blood and adrenaline from earlier immensely helping them outrun the two seamen, surprising the stewards and a lot of people marching in for dinner. Fortunately, no one manages to recognise Sherlock, or the change in his scent. The run past the Grand Staircase and manage to merge into a group of people heading towards the elevators. The seamen don't get in, of course, and Sherlock and John heave a sigh of relief.

"That was—" John pants, "That was ridiculous. Breaking into the gym. . . most. . . ridiculous thing. . . I've ever done!"

"And to think you survived the streets!"

"What now?" John asks him, laughter subsiding as people look around at them. He realises, with a pang, that Sherlock's scent is gone again. Lost in the adrenaline rush. Sherlock has seemingly forgotten about their tryst and their state of arousal.

Sherlock looks at the elevator, "I have an idea."

 

* * *

 

 

One of the patterns that the White Star Line had created for future liners while considering the sheltering of Third Class passengers in its ships was that the single men were quartered in the forward areas, while single women, married couples and families are quartered aft. So, effectively, they had come the right way, Sherlock decides. The elevator takes Sherlock and John till E Deck, after which they walk together to the stairs leading to F Deck.

"You want to see the swimming pool?" John asks hopefully.

"We'll go there tomorrow," says he decisively after a moment of decision, thinking about the Beta scent he had been preparing with the help of his chemistry set, "Right now, I have other plans for us."

John does not fail to notice the glimmer in his eyes as he speaks and laces their fingers together. He grins up at him as they finally get to G Deck berthing after lots of running around, through the corridors where they run into several mail clerks, messing up their post parcels, and some other people going up for dinner. At last, they end up near G-60, the cubicle which John shares with Mike and the two Swedes.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Sherlock asks with a smirk, one eyebrow up in midair. John opens the door for him, "After you, Monsieur Holmes."

Sherlock casts his gaze around the room. It is a modest cubicle, painted enamel white, with four bunks. Exposed pipes overhead, with a washbasin near one of the bunks. A porthole is opened to keep the room cool during the day. John sighs and reaches out to close it.

"Your drawing supplies," he points at what he assumes to be John's bunk, "We'll need them."

John frowns, but acquiesces anyway, "Okay."

After they have got all the necessary materials, they navigate their way up. Their fingers touch, and sometimes their arms brush together, but neither of them mention anything about it. None of them want to talk of their future, that now they have scented, John is expected to trigger the Estrus in Sherlock and claim him as his Mate, and that they had been about to make love in a gym. As a distraction, Sherlock occasionally drops appalling conclusions about the people walking past them. Almost every time, Sherlock can manage a straight face while John doubles up with laughter. People look at them once because they're a very odd couple, twice because John keeps on laughing to himself with Sherlock at the pinnacle of sobriety.

"Stop that!" he snarls as he bursts into laughter for the umpteenth time, "Stop making me laugh!"

"Well, you don't really seem to mind," says he, with an amused sort of expression, "And look at that one," he points at an elderly man looking pretty much like all the First Class elderly men looked like. "Tripped over his dog today and also fell into the pool. Pushed, I'd say."

John pinches himself to prevent himself from laughing like a maniac at the very helpful mental picture. They make their way to B Deck into Victor's suite. Sherlock opens the door to let John in, who gazes around in undisguised wonder. He truly is overwhelmed and fascinated by the opulence of the room as he sets his sketchbook and drawing materials on the marble table.

"Well. . . I'm not sure if I can draw such. . . 'orreeble things," he says jokingly, "if zat's what you want. But let me tell you, I do have some standards, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock smiles. John would truly be surprised when he puts forward his request. The smart, witty adolescent in Sherlock cuts John a scathing reply, "Your French is awful, has anyone told you that?"

"All part of the charm," says he, bowing and scraping, "But don't tell me you want me to draw the room. I do human figures best."

Sherlock smiles, "I know. That's why I've summoned you here."

John's gaze seems to wander away inside the suite. He smiles and points at the table near presumably Sherlock's bed, "Is that. . . you're a chemist as well?"

"I'm learning things by myself. They don't teach an Omega such things in school. Destroys fertility. What a bunch of bollocks!"

John smiles sympathetically, "You hate being an Omega, don't you?"

He looks at his chemical apparatus, immersed in deep thoughts. At last, he floats back to the surface, "Not anymore."

John smiles at him, kind and loving, "What do you do in there?"

Sherlock looks surprised when John asks him that question. No one had ever expressed any interest in his experiments. Mrs. Hudson. . . well, she just screamed when purple became blood-like crimson, or pink became colourless. She deemed it magic, instead of science, making him scoff heavily.

"See this," he motions John to come inside and shows him a colourless water-like liquid in a beaker, "Inhale it. Tell me what it is."

John takes a quick sniff and almost drops the beaker in surprise. His eyes widen as he looks up at the wonderful Omega in front of him. He has lost count of the number of qualities he has attributed to Sherlock.

"Beta scent," he gasps, "Wow! But why?"

"How do you think I was out today? It's the only odour that won't affect me."

John tries his best not to blush at that blunt question. He busies himself as Sherlock points out various reactions he knew, including a reagent that precipitated only haemoglobin, nothing else, his own discovery, eliciting various exclamations of surprise and appreciation from John, and pleased smiles from Sherlock. After sometime, they retreat back to the living room. Sherlock takes off his engagement ring and throws it away. It hits the floor with a dull thud, just like his marriage with Victor would have been.

"You just. . . threw that away," he remarks.

"Brilliant, John! Great observational skills."

John heaves a sigh, "Why?"

"This ring is a proof that I'm still tied to Victor. I can't have this sitting on my finger while you draw me."

John's eyes go wide when he hears it.

"I—I mean. . ." Sherlock shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips and a faint blush appearing on his sallow cheeks, "Not—only if you're comfortable with it, of course."

"With. . . drawing you?" he asks uncertainly. He feels like he's skirting around dangerous waters again.

"Drawing me," he confirms with a nod, looking quite sure of himself. Even underneath all that nervousness, he's quite sure that John would not decline, "like one of your French girls."

He nods at him, "Alright. I'll sharpen my pencils—"

"Drawing  _me_ ," Sherlock interrupts, looking down and licking his lips, his lean body taut with expectation, " _Only_.  _Me_."


	11. The "Art" Of Seduction

"Yeah... okay, I'll draw only you."

Sherlock looks down, exasperated. John was making this extremely difficult for him. He had hoped that he would understand in one sentence, but...

"Maybe I wasn't being clear.  Draw me _like_ one of your French girls."

"I got..." John trails off, finally understanding the request, "Oh."

A monosyllable is all that manages to roll off his tongue. He knows the anatomy but he has never drawn nude men. Of course, he wouldn't. What sort of Alpha would flash his naked body for artistic purposes, even for a bit of quick money? He gapes at Sherlock for longer than deemed normal, his mind trying to picture the tension in the room if he agreed to it: the awkwardness, the constant rebellion inside him to surrender to his hormone-fuelled desires and take Sherlock then and there.

It would have been easier if he had not been in Heat. He could _feel_ the pheromones in the room, diffusing from Sherlock's skin into the atmosphere, and the whole idea started to look like an impossibility without forcing himself on him.

"John?" Sherlock touches him on his shoulder, looking a little concerned about the effect of his words on him.

He releases a lungful of breath that he doesn't realize that he had been holding till now. The room, however big, seems small and stuffier now. John swallows and manages to avert his eyes from Sherlock, only to meet them fleetingly.

"Yeah... I mean - you sure about this?" 'During Estrus' remains unspoken but implied.

If any other person had asked this question and under any other circumstances, Sherlock would have flipped out in a second. However, upon seeing the surprised and alarmed look on John's face and the frantic pulse point in his neck, he decides to cut him some slack.

"As sure as I can be."

John had always managed to detach himself from subjects of his study, be it figures of nude women, or anything else. But... this was personal. It was Sherlock.

For one split second, a beam of light comes down from the Heavens and he draws in a deep breath giving him a curt nod of agreement. If Sherlock wanted him to do this, he certainly would, "I'll, ahem - make my preparations," he declares in a very much normal voice, "Should I turn-?"

"I'll be five minutes," says he, trying to be very mature, the sharp black cut of his leonine body stiff as he retreats to his room, closing the door behind him. For a minute, Sherlock remains stuck to the door, his heart pumping furiously at the thought of being nude in front of John, just within a few feet, just within the reach of his fingers.

It gives him a sort of a perverse thrill, not very unlike the elation he had felt at the bow or the short spell of excitement he had experienced while outrunning the seamen or even during that night in Colonel Moran's stateroom.

He reaches out, plucking at the top button of his shirt, willing but uncertain. Fingers brush against his bare skin, and he tries his best to control himself. John was right. There was no point doing this during Estrus. If he wanted a sketch, he should wait till it was over.

No, if John could do this, so could he.

Meanwhile, in the sitting room, John looks around at his surroundings, feeling a little intimidated by the proper fireplace, electric lighting and what not. He decides to light the fireplace. Sherlock would feel cold and he certainly wanted his model to be at his best.

He thinks about Sherlock's pose, how he would stand or sit, but finds himself painfully distracted by the thoughts of... John stops himself before he can think any further. He lays out his pencils like surgical tools, sharpening them to points, to perfection. Some blank sheets lie in front of him, waiting to be filled.

But what he's more nervous about was would he be able to do proper justice to Sherlock? The Omega was, as Mike had said very rightfully, a God among mortals, an answer to an artist's prayers, an Adonis in flesh. The blade slips through his fingers as he sharpens his pencils, narrowly avoiding a cut. John swallows and folds his legs. Everything had to be perfect.

Just then, the door opens, with Sherlock in the doorway, smirking playfully at him, or trying to, with nervousness quite clear on his face. John stops whatever he was doing as his attention is jerked upright at him. He is in his royal blue silk dressing gown, looking at him expectantly.

"Now, Mr. Watson," he growls in a sultry voice, causing John to shrink away, his whole face lighting up with surprise, "I expect you to be completely professional about my sketch. I'll not have you brooding over me for more than it is necessary. Is that in any way unclear?"

John swallows and shakes his head, terribly turned on by the mixture of the pheromones and the strict and dirty baritone voice. He realises that he's sweating badly, wondering if it's too late to go and douse the fire.

"Good." He steps back, parting the gown as the smile slowly disappears from his face, the true emotions of anticipation and apprehension come through and take dominance over his features. A creamy expanse of chest and skin is revealed and then the gown drops to the floor without any prior warning.

John is speechless.

He is so stricken that he wishes he were dead. It takes him every ounce of his self-restraint not to throw away the papers and the pencils and take him then and there. It's just hormones and the damning Estrus scent, he tells himself. He stares up at his face resolutely, not looking at anywhere below the waist.

Sherlock looks into his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching up at John's discomfort and yet eyes screaming 'what do you think of this?'. Upon seeing his amusement, John clears his throat a tad too loudly, and announces in a businesslike tone, "Standing or sitting: what do you think?"

His voice is crisp, but underneath Sherlock could perceive the desperation and the raw aching in his voice. John's face doesn't give his discomfort away at all. He tries his best to blink the arousal out of his eyes.

"The divan. I'll lie down."

"Not standing?" says he, thinking about a more dominating pose for Sherlock.

But he confirms his own choice with a slight bob of the head and settles down like a cat into a lazy, submissive position. John shifts into a more comfortable position and directs him how to place himself before he can find the correct pose to suit him.

Sherlock wanted to look like he was submitting to him. He tries not to smile at that thought. Not that thoughts come to him all that much anyway.

"Uh... fold your arm a bit, so your fingers rest against your cheek," he studies the pose before making some more amends, "and lower your head."

It's a wicked feeling in him, being obeyed like that by Sherlock. There's a fond smile on his lips at seeing his artist so absorbed in his work.

"Eyes to me," he points at his own, "Always on me," John's eyes narrow as he visualises the final sketch in his mind and whether it will be able to convey the proper message every time he saw it.

"Try to stay still."

He exhales a breath as he commits himself to the paper in front of him. John starts to sketch. He drops his pencil and Sherlock stifles a laugh. He clears his throat in embarrassment, but manages to speak properly, "No laughing."

His strict voice combined by his comically stricken look manage to make him laugh again, but as he sees John's stern eyes over the sketchpad, he relaxes himself with a sorry.

His fingers grip the nub of the charcoal a little harder than usual as he drags it along the page to create a vague outline of the divan. No props, he tells himself. This picture was about Sherlock, and how he saw him through his eyes.

He draws a couple more breaths before the nervousness starts to slowly wilt away and the artist comes through. He starts with the outline of his whole figure, like the study of some subject, where you start from the scratch and plunge deeper into it. He places Sherlock's head between his arms, just like the real life man was, who was watching him with keen scrutiny. He goes down and down till his neck and his chest are hazy outlines too. His fingers gently caress along the body, and thinking about the parallelism distracts him again, but he determinedly shoves his thoughts away.

It was otherworldly, drawing Sherlock, immortalising him on paper with charcoal. For the first time, John wishes he had learnt working with paints too.

The only props he allows is the pillows over which he settles. The rest is Sherlock. All of his attention and observation are focussed onto him, and Sherlock finds it dizzyingly erotic. He lets himself revel in the uncomplicated but powerful feeling of raw lust towards the man's fingers stroking his length gently, provocatively...

From the creamy, muscled chest, John moves down to his firm-looking stomach and the outlines of his torso and the symmetrical arches of the hipbones. One of the lamps flicker behind him, throwing shadows and lights all over Sherlock's body, creating an optical illusion to behold. It is the highest honour anyone could have bestowed upon him, to allow him to praise his physical beauty through the way he is best in.

The feeling of apprehension is still there, but unlike that of a lusting Alpha, it's more like the concern and the search for perfection in an artist. This was important to him, and more so, it was important to Sherlock.

His fingers go down to the his crotch, cocooned by a nest of dark curls. John wonders for an uncomfortable moment whether to leave the lower half in shadows later, or detail them like a map.

Sherlock, meanwhile notices where John's gaze rests and his heart starts pounding even stronger. It was like a competition between the two of them: who got up first, and they both were unwilling to back down. For one second, his imagination conjures the partial sketch John must have done on the paper now, just hazy outlines in the five minutes.

Five minutes and it already feels like an hour to him.

He thinks about John's warm fingers grazing along the lines and the contours of his body and he can't help but sigh quietly at the sweltering eroticism, at the thought of John's fingers grazing his whole body, at the thought of what they could do to him. But John is so absorbed in his work that he hardly notices it.

Sherlock remembers a dozen things about his body that were wrong and imperfect like his angular jawline, his toes and what not. A peek over at John's eyes tell him that the artist is doing nothing but worship, pouring all his adoration and reverence and love onto paper.

Most artists didn't bother with faces on the sketches that they made. The same was not the case with him. His sketches capture the very essence of being human and eternal at the same time. After the whole frame is outlined, he settles with detailing it. Despite his nervousness, he marks the paper with sure strokes, setting Sherlock across a black charcoal background, just like he sees him, mysterious, ethereal and untouchable, like blinding, brilliant light in total darkness.

He pays close attention to Sherlock's face, the way his tousled curls lie nonchalantly on his forehead and the way they clash against the porcelain skin, the way his piercing eyes shine with suppressed elation and fire, the way his lips tremble as he, not quite himself, fantasises John's fingers running up and down his whole nude portrait. Sherlock tries to cough the feeling away, only to receive a pained look from John. Every small sound is like a new-cut fingernail crawling over his spine, cutting into the soft flesh.

John inhales sharply and looks over his sketchpad at Sherlock, with the mindset of an Alpha hell bent on bonding far away in some deep corner of his mind. It's an image that the both of them will always keep fresh in their minds.

His fingers graze lovingly over Sherlock's face, smearing a little charcoal over his forehead to bring out the contrast between the light and the shadows falling across his face. It resembles him in many aspects and yet much different from what he really is. His cheekbones are carved out perfectly, and his eyes radiate the wild pagan spirit within and the feeling of omniscience comes out as he leaves his eyes greyish, outlining a fine detail such as his irises just so that their translucency comes through, even though they actually were completely dark and blown now.

John remembers the feeling when he had kissed Sherlock for the first time and how soft and supple his lips had felt, and shades them on the basis of that single memory. He masters the detail of his elegant fingers resting lazily against his dark curls, bothering as far as to even drawing the manicured nails. He draws some from his own memory, the way his fingers felt when they were intertwined in his on the bow rail.

Every now and then, Sherlock utters a purr, making the heat find its way back between John's legs. He wonders if Sherlock is doing that on purpose or if even he feels... turned on. His eyes trace their way back to his crotch and this time he can't help himself when he sees him half-hard. Sherlock follows his gaze halfway, only to flash a smirk at the man sitting across him. The air between them practically vibrates with excitement and arousal, laced with those tantalising pheromones and John can't help but inhale the treacherous scent again, the scent that was calling to him, rendering the Alpha in him howling in his mind within seconds. Calling for an Alpha’s knot, calling for him.

"John," Sherlock's voice is breathless and strained, owing to the hormones that John's body secretes as a response to Sherlock's presence. His eyes beg to him to take him then and there, "Please," he whispers, pouring everything he feels into that one word and holding it up to John.

"The... portrait," he manages to wheeze, his nostrils flaring, his voice too husky for an artist.

Sherlock gives him the weakest of smiles and settles back into the position John had ordered him into before. He attacks the pale, slim column of his neck, fingers deftly shading through the tendons and the bobbing Adam's apple, drowning a part of it in mystifying darkness. He imagines his lips and his tongue grazing through and adds several other details accordingly, feeling the imaginary sensation of Sherlock's neck between his teeth as he makes his way down uninterrupted to the collarbone and the hollow of the suprasternal notch.

He looks up at him for reference again and Sherlock looks back determinedly. John's gaze itself feels like a caress against his skin, like innumerable minute points of electricity lighting up inside him. Sherlock has never felt so naked before, so vulnerable and yet like a demigod.

Then slowly, the minutiae of his chest come out into the image, the scanty chest hair, the marble white skin along with his shapely and toned arms. John watches his chest rise and fall in rapid succession and smiles to himself at the rush it creates within him to see Sherlock panting with effort.

"What?" he manages to croak.

John doesn't reply. It's all too beautiful, so intimate and he doesn't want to lose the opportunity to capture the rare sight by simply babbling away. He simply shakes his head as he darkens the nipples, teasing the firm-looking belly and the slight dip ending at his navel, spending an infinite amount of time there. There's not a blemish on his chest. It lies pale and marble-like in its expanse like still water.

Moving down, he shades the area between his legs slightly darker than the rest, just like the meagre amount of dark pubic hair and the shadows combine to make him look like.

"Don't be shy, John," Sherlock has forsaken all the breathlessness from before, and his voice is playful again. John chuckles, "I'm not the one with an erection here, am I?"

Sherlock bites his lip, smiling provocatively, and almost on the verge of blushing, "You do know how to charm poor innocent Omegas like me, don't you _Doctor_?"

John rolls his eyes and continues wordlessly. He draws a vague outline of his genitals, letting his fingers roam over them for sometime before proceeding downwards to his inner thighs and to his long legs, his endless and graceful long legs. They looked like they had never been out in the sun, just as white and ethereal as the rest of his body. They were muscled too, with veins and tendons standing out like whipcord. John details the toes as well, every single of them, and then gives Sherlock a winning smile, informing that they were nearing the end as he adds finishing touches.

The hair on his head becomes more curly and tousled and the sketch actually looks like it is radiating light. John adds one or two more trifling details, smudging some areas with his shirt instead of his blackened fingers, and darkening others coal black. He inspects his handiwork, satisfied and blows the remaining charcoal away. He fidgets in his chair as Sherlock finally sits up and cracks his knuckles. John lets out an involuntary groan quickly followed by an apologetic glance.

"What's the time?" he blurts out.

Sherlock pauses and then speaks, answering the real question, "You've been hunched over for an hour and thirty seven minutes, to be precise."

That long? John usually took a little over an hour to complete his drawings. He takes a final glance at the drawing and closes the sketchpad shut, keeping it on the side-table beside him. Sherlock stretches his full length once again and stands up, leaving John to wonder how a person with so much energy within him could  stay still for that amount of period.

"May I see?"

John grins at him, not really caring that a very nude Sherlock Holmes stood in front of him, waiting to be...

He hands him the sketchpad, scratching the nape of his neck. The intense creative marathon has left him completely devoid of reticence and inhibitions. Sherlock scoops up his dressing gown on the way and drapes it over his shoulders, as he accepts the drawing from him. He opens it and gazes at it for several moments, running his eyes all over his counterpart on paper. John really has X-rayed his soul. Even though the pose is submissive and languid, it is obvious from the way he is depicted that the man in the photo definitely wasn't. He was like a force of nature, powerful and unyielding.  He wonders if this was how John saw him, the bold, the free and the authoritative man lounged on the red brocade as opposed to the "indoor posh Omega" he had always been forced to be.

"Something wrong?" John inquires.

Sherlock simply smiles and hands it back to him, leaning over his shoulder, "Date it, John. I want to always remember this night."

He does: 4/14/1912. JW, and gives it back to him, "I want you to have it." _It's the only thing that I can give you._

Sherlock smiles, his face soft and tender as he plants a gentle kiss on John's lips, "Thank you." _You've given me everything I've ever wanted._

* * *

On the starboard side bridge, Captain Smith peers out at the blackness ahead of the ship. The Titanic glides across an unnatural sea, black and calm as a pool of oil. He watches the ship's lights mirrored almost perfectly against the black water. The sky is brilliant with stars. A meteor traces a bright line across the heavens.

Q Hitchins brings him a cup of hot tea with lemon. It steams in the bitter cold of the open bridge. Second Officer Lightoller joins him, staring out at the sheet of black glass that the Atlantic has become.

"Clear."

"Yes. I don't think I've ever seen such a flat calm, in 24 years at sea."

"Like a mill pond," he smiles, "Not a breath of wind."

Lightoller hesitates before placing his qualms with the captain, "It'll... make the bergs harder to see..." he looks at Smith pointedly, "with no breaking water at the base."

Creases appear on Smith's forehead as his expression tightens, upon reconsidering his Officer's words. He nods absentmindedly, stirring the tea. He looks like he's just about to order the ship to stop for the night in the wake of the repeated iceberg warnings as Mr. Andrews and the Holmeses come to his mind. His eyes are resolute as he remembers the part about 'Retiring with a bang', "Well, I'm off. Maintain speed and heading, Mr. Lightoller."

Lightoller looks a little concerned, but he cannot give orders against the captain, "Yes sir."

"And wake me, of course, if anything becomes in the slightest degree doubtful."

* * *

In the Wireless Room, sparks fill the gap of the Marconi instrument as Senior Wireless Operator Jack Phillips rapidly keys out a message. Junior Operator Bride looks through the huge stack of outgoing messages swamping them.

"Look at this one," says Bride, slapping the piece of paper down, "he wants his private train to meet him. Bloody idiots! We'll be up all night on this lot!"

Meanwhile, Phillips starts to receive an incoming message from a nearby ship, the Leyland freighter S.S. Californian, which jams his outgoing signal. At such close range, the beeps are deafening.

"Christ! It's that idiot on the Californian," says he cursing, as he furiously keys a rebuke.

* * *

In the Wireless shack on the S.S. Californian, the ship nearest to Titanic at the moment, Wireless Operator Cyril Evans pulls his earphone off his ear as the Titanic's spark deafens him. He translates the message for Third Officer Groves.

"Stupid bastard," he curses, "I try to warn him about the ice, and he says 'Keep out. Shut up. I'm working Cape Race.' "

Groves heaves an exasperated sigh, "Now what's he sending?"

" 'No seasickness' ," he recites the routed greetings and messages that the passengers on Titanic were sending through to Cape Race to all of America, " 'Poker business good. Al'. Well that's it for me. I'm shuttin' down!"

As Evans wearily switches off his generator, Groves goes out on deck watching with ever-alert eyes as the ship is stopped fifty yards from the edge of a field packed with ice and icebergs stretching as far as the eye can see.

* * *

John feels the wind attack his skin cruelly as he leans out of the windows of the promenade, staring into darkness, wondering where they were exactly. When the cold becomes too much for him, he walks inside, rubbing his palms together to generate some friction.

"What are you doing?" says he as Sherlock, now dressed in only a shirt and trousers, locks the sketchbook away and rolls a piece of paper, inserting it into his engagement ring. He holds it up for John to see.

"First useful purpose it has served."

"For what?"

" 'Keep this as a reminder of my utmost _love_ for you, _my darling_ ' ," he recites, " 'Not all Alphas jump at the first Omega in Heat.' " He tucks it away into a safe and closes it with a clunk.

There are no words to express how proud John feels of himself when Sherlock says those words. He simply smiles, "What now?"

"Whatever we want it to be," Sherlock leans in and presses his mouth to John's, their tongues melting together instantly, drawing a moan from the Alpha's throat as he feels Sherlock's tongue entwining with his. John's fingers, which had been caressing only Sherlock's sketch till now, reach out to trace Sherlock's body, from the curls of his hair to his neck and to the strong sweep of his shoulders. He breaks away breathlessly as he pins Sherlock to a wall, grazing his mouth and his tongue hungrily over the skin, tasting those pheromones, if they even had a taste. At this point, they were salty and distinctively Sherlock.

Sherlock throws his head back, exposing his neck to John, almost whimpering at his touch as he pins his head to his neck, a shiver running through his spine. A strangled moan escapes his lips as John softly bites into his skin and returns to his lips. There's a wicked pleasure in surrendering to John in the same cabin where Victor had attempted to take him the previous day.

They hear a key turn in the lock and Sherlock and John break apart, completely flushed and panting, probably wondering why someone always gatecrashed into them while they made out.

"Gregson," Sherlock whispers, tugging at John's hand, "We have to move."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't do a bad work of this. I sort of know the feeling that Rose had had because there was this one time when I was in 7th grade and my first crush had sketched me out (not nude, of course). It was sort of a class assignment that we sketch out our classmates, 14 in total.
> 
> I had completed mine, so this teacher made me sit as a model and he was there, right in front of me, smirking up at me and trying to make me laugh. I pointed out that his sketch would go wrong if he did that (he was also a very good artist), and so he stopped.
> 
> Now, the assembly was still going on downstairs and then all of a sudden, the national anthem blared out and we all gotta stand. I remember him begging me not to move, but the teacher was on one side and he was on the other and I just sort of half-stood! LOL I still remember the priceless look on his face, his anguish that the sketch was gonna go all wrong! 
> 
> As for the sketch, I don't know what happened to it... I forgot to ask him, but I do remember posing for him and it's such a wonderful feeling to be sketched by someone you like.
> 
> And, then I got to see Titanic, I was the last of my friends to see the movie, and then when this nude portrait scene arrives and the look on Jack's face, all I can remember is him sketching me and the look in his eyes. It's a wonderful feeling to have his eyes notice all the small details about you and it's sort of exhilarating and you feel so self-conscious all the time. To tell the truth, I'd love to pose for him again, if I ever got the opportunity! <3
> 
> Sorry, I'm rambling, I'll just shut up now! x


	12. The Iceman Cometh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that my version of John is too cheerful and adventurous, but let me remind you that he is still 20 years old and not the war hero PTSD fella. I'm trying to explore what he must have been before he went off to war and when he still had dreams, and of course I take the inspiration from Mr. Freeman himself.
> 
> Sorry if you were thrown off by the S.S. Californian part in the previous chapter. This was one of the important things that Mr. Cameron had not put in his film, so I decided to add it.

John nods in understanding as Sherlock leads him silently through the bedrooms. Gregson enters by the sitting room door. The distracting scent of the pheromones blinds him for a moment, giving them a head start. He knows that Sherlock was there. He recognises the scent from the day before. He noiselessly moves through Victor's room towards Sherlock's like a bloodhound and keeps a steady grip on his revolver.

"Damn Estrus!" Sherlock hisses as he hears Gregson closing in on them, following his scent, "Come on!"

Sherlock and John come out of the stateroom, closing the door as quietly as possible. He leads him quickly along the corridor toward the B deck foyer, grinning at one another at their narrow escape. They are halfway across the open space when the sitting room door opens in the corridor and Gregson comes out. The valet sees John with Sherlock and hustles after them.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock and John resist every reflex to look back upon their shoulder. But when the valet does not seem to give up his pursuit, Sherlock grabs his hand before John can realise what was happening and they break into a run.

"Come on, John!"

They shoot across the Grand Staircase for the second time, surprising the few ladies and gentlemen about. Sherlock leads him past the stairs to the bank of elevators. They run into one, shocking the hell out of the Operator. A couple emerging duck out of their way frantically as they crash inside.

"Take us down. Quickly, quickly, you moron!" Sherlock cries, not deserting his delightful use of language even during emergencies.

"E Deck!" John cries in harmony.

The Operator scrambles to comply. John even helps him close the steel gate. Victor's valet runs up panting as the lift starts to descend. He slams one hand on the bars of the gate. Sherlock sticks out the finger at him and laughs as Gregson disappears above. The Operator gapes at him as John giggles.

"You're insane!" He declares, waving a dismissive hand towards the operator.

Sherlock gives him a smile that is cute and wicked at the same time, "You're just getting that now?"

Gregson emerges from another lift and runs to the one John and Sherlock were in. The Operator is just closing the gate to go back up. Gregson runs around the bank of elevators and scans the foyer... no John and Sherlock. He tries the stairs going down to F Deck.

Meanwhile, John and Sherlock hasten through the F Deck corridors, stumbling, laughing as they bump into stewards, postmen, maids and other people. John bumps into a steward wheeling a whole load of cutlery, smashing them to pieces.

"Oi! Watch out where you're going!" The steward calls after the retreating figures, "That's White Star Line property!"

"Call for Mycroft Holmes, suite number B-56!" Sherlock yells, "He'll refund it threefold for you!"

They stop for some time somewhere near the fan rooms, a functional space, with access to a number of machine spaces, fan rooms, boiler uptakes etc.

"What're we gonna do now?"

Sherlock looks around him, "Fool him. Run the old man around. At any rate, I'm enjoying this immensely!"

John breaks into undignified giggles, "Are you sure he's only a valet, this fella?"

"He's an ex-Pinkerton," Sherlock pants, "Victor's father hired him to keep him out of trouble... to make sure he always got back to the hotel with his wallet and watch intact, after some crawl through the, uh... less reputable parts of town..."

"Like we're doing right now-- uh oh!"

Gregson has spotted them from a cross-corridor nearby. He charges toward them, adjusting his tie. John and Sherlock run around a corner into a blind alley. There is one door, marked Crew Only, and Sherlock flings it open, pushing John into it.

They enter a room roaring with the sounds of engines, with no way out but a ladder going down into the bowels of the ship. John latches the deadbolt on the door, and Gregson slams against it a moment later. Sherlock grins at John, pointing to the ladder, from which hot embers arise, "How far, do you think?" he yells over the noise.

John returns it, "Let's find out."

Sherlock's eyes light up with the promise of adventure yet his tone comes across as warning, "Could be dangerous."

But John simply backs away, letting Sherlock go first, "After you, m'lord."

* * *

John and Sherlock come down the escape ladder, scaling the drop of three feet, and look around in amazement. It is like a vision of hell itself, with the roaring furnaces and black figures moving in the smoky glow. An irresistible thrill of excitement passes through Sherlock's spine as he recognises it, "Boiler rooms!" he yells, "I've always wanted to come down here!"

"More coal for number one, mate!"

The stokers seem to work with the rhythm of something undefined yet instinctively recognisable as they hurl coal into the roaring furnaces. The "black gang" are covered with sweat and coal dust, their muscles working like part of the machinery as they toil in the hellish glow.

John and Sherlock are both sweating profusely, with the hot blast of sweltering air blowing in their faces, feeling like the sting on an insect. The heat makes them shiver. Sherlock turns around to see the little steam pressure dials. Full speed, he gathers. The iceberg warning from the morning hits him but all his thoughts are lost over the din.

"That way!" Sherlock yells, "We're somewhere in the middle. The engines are towards the stern, and I always wanted to see them-"

"Hey!"

They turn around to see one of the stokers scowling darkly at them, "What are you two doin' down 'ere?" John pulls Sherlock away in the opposite direction as they break into a run again towards the front part of the ship instead, completely disregarding the man.

"You shouldn't be down here!" He yells after them, baffled at Sherlock's quite respectable and very first class attire, "It could be dangerous! Oi!"

They run the length of the boiler room, dodging stunned stokers, and trimmers with their wheelbarrows of coal. They run through the open watertight door into another boiler room. John pulls him through the fiercely hot alley between two boilers and they wind up in the dark, out of sight of the working crew. Watching from the shadows, they see the stokers working in the hellish glow, shovelling coal into the insatiable maws of the furnaces. The whole place thunders with the roar of the fires.

"Carry on!" Sherlock yells as the men gape at the two of them running about just for the hell of it, "We're just being stupid... well, John's being stupid!" says he, receiving a slap across his back from him, "But you're all doing a great job!"

They all watch baffled as the couple darts past everyone, not having enough processing to register that there's an Unbonded Omega in Heat amongst them. One of them even lets go of the handle of the wheelbarrow as he watches the two dashing about like children. It trips over and lands on the feet of another, almost crushing his toes.

"Ow, you bastard!"

John and Sherlock escape into giggles. "Own it, lads!" says John, "High praise from the one and only Sherlock Holmes!"

* * *

In the First Class smoking room, amid unparalled luxury, Mycroft sits at a card game, sipping brandy. Victor mingles effortlessly with everyone, like always. But this time, his tension is quite evident as he keeps checking his pocket watch all the time. Mycroft gives him a slight nudge as Gregson returns to them.

"Will you excuse us, gentlemen?" says he, as the two of them rise and go to him. Gregson doesn't wait to submit his report.

"He was with him," Mycroft and Victor know very well who this 'him' was, "In your stateroom."

Victor's jaw muscles clench at this noticeably as he grits his teeth. Mycroft notices this and takes charge of the situation. He had underestimated John.

"What do you mean 'was'? Where are they now?"

Gregson looks down, feeling very small, "Outran me."

Mycroft closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, "Please fetch Andrea to our suite, Mr. Gregson. She'll be in the dining saloon probably. I'm sure Victor and I can find our way back."

He gives him and his employer a curt nod and walks away.

"We should probably check if something has been stolen."

Victor notes Mycroft's bland but determined tone and simply nods as they walk out of the smoking parlour and to the Grand Staircase.

Mycroft cannot describe how betrayed he feels upon hearing Sherlock's treachery. The silence between them is tense, like the sword of Damocles hanging upon them. At this point, he doesn't care about anything. He just wants his brother back, safe and sound and with his virtue intact.

Upon entering the stateroom, Victor almost collapses owing to the incredibly strong odour of pheromones still persisting in the air. It is nothing like he has ever sensed before. His mind, his defences are dissolved for a moment as he feels his throat constricted by the feeling. Mycroft, being a family Alpha, isn't much affected, but it is clear from his face that it is strong even for him. He goes and throws open all the doors for the suffocation to diffuse away.

Victor grinds his teeth together. The scent from yesterday was not even a fraction of this. Mycroft goes into the inner rooms, thinking the worst, looking for any signs of incriminating evidence. He doesn't find any.

"Check your safe," says he as he helps the incapacitated Victor to his feet. Andrea and Gregson also arrive at this point of time.

Victor goes and dials in the combination. Inside, he finds John's sketchpad and the note enclosed by the engagement ring. The rest of the party peek over as he stares at the drawing of Sherlock, his face clenching with fury. Andrea and Gregson look away, slightly embarrassed as Victor crumples the note, then takes the drawing in both hands as if to rip it in half. Sherlock has finally got to him, to his breaking point. He tenses to do it, then stops himself as Mycroft places his palms on his hand gently, restraining him.

"I have a better idea."

* * *

The furnaces roar, silhouetting the glistening stokers. John and Sherlock are now making their way back through the darkness, still running as far as their feet can carry them. Suddenly John stops and grabs Sherlock's elbow, pulling him closer, gasping for air. Sherlock leans down to kiss him just as John opens his mouth. He smiles before closing the distance, making the tone of the kiss as tentative as he always did. He gently pushes him till Sherlock's back is against the wall. He straddles his waist as he kisses him ever so gently and carefully, like he was afraid, even terrified to hurt him. But Sherlock shows no sign of discomfort other than the fact that he is incredibly aroused.

Sherlock urges him forward, clutching his shoulders and running his fingers through his sweaty hair as John slowly plies his mouth open, not able to control any longer, slowly snaking his tongue inside.

"J-ohn..." he moans softly, rolling his hips forward against his without being fully conscious of it, his knees giving away at the feel of their tongues mingling together, sending sparks and shivers down his spine.

Sherlock has never felt anything like this, nothing so arousing and so overwhelming. To feel the unbelievable amount of heat that he was radiating, so much heat that it blocked out the heat from the boilers, to feel John straining through his trousers, and to think that it was for him, and when John takes his lower lips between his teeth and bites gently, while running his tongue on the inside of his bottom lip, he completely loses it, shuddering violently and forcing him forward, tightening his grip on the nape of his neck.

"John," he moans, triggering goose bumps all over his body.

But it's nothing compared to the feeling of John's mouth travelling away, his lips trailing over his cheekbones and to his earlobe. Sherlock lets out a shuddery gasp as his eyes widen in surprise, causing John to almost snort into his neck. He tastes the sweat trickling down from John's forehead as his knees give away for real this time and he slides down to the floor, collapsing under the feeling of John's tingling breath. His breath picks up again, worse than it has ever been as he grabs a handful of John's blonde hair. His heart jumps in and out of his chest as he feels John's grip on his waist tighten.

"God!" John gasps as Sherlock pushes him away. He looks confused at his remarkably calm expression in the face of so much heat, both inside and outside. Sherlock leans forward, stealing a quick kiss.

"Not here," he pants, the only indication that he too was turned on, "I believe you have more sense than to deflower me in the Boiler rooms, Mr. Watson!"

John turns an extremely fatal shade of crimson, if that was even possible, at Sherlock's bold suggestion, "God, Sherlock! You can't kiss me like that and just push me away!"

Even in the noise and the din, footsteps are discernible. All he needs is a look and they both scurry off and out of there, not wanting to be spotted by any of the stokers.

* * *

Victor stares at the younger Alpha ridiculously, "What the hell is this, Mycroft? What have you to say for yourself and your disreputable trollop of a brother?”

"My dear Victor," Mycroft takes the drawing from him and places it carefully inside the sketchpad, the veins in his forehead standing out clearly when Victor calls his brother 'disreputable', "Do sit down in one of the chairs in the promenade for a moment and let the air around you clear away. You are not in a position to talk-"

"Not in a position to TALK?! Of course I'm not, Mycroft! Your brother - _my fiancée_ \- just ran away with a steerage rat, damn it!" He kicks a chair in anger and then restrains himself, breathing out his words, "I will not have this - wanton Omega," he almost spits it, "as my mate."

Mycroft's heart stops right there. He sucks in a breath and his anger at the older Alpha, wanting to retaliate with dissolving the whole engagement itself, accusing him of trying to rape his brother, but he tries to calm himself down anyway, speaking in the only language Victor could understand, "You know I would not deal dishonestly with you, Victor. I assure you that nothing has happened, or will happen. Watson is a gentleman-"

"So-so... you're standing up for him, now?" Victor hisses, taking full advantage of his height, his eyes paranoid and psychotic, his carefully cultivated composed self entirely forgotten to fury, "You're taunting me like he did? He's in Heat, Mycroft! Even God cannot stop an Alpha from taking an Omega in Heat..."

For the first time, Mycroft realises how wrong Victor is. He has seen the evidence for himself. Nothing had happened in there. And if one considered Sherlock, if anything had to happen, it would have been in Victor's stateroom. He just wants him back. Whether back with Victor or not is now out of the equation as he slowly sees what his brother has had to deal with till now. He regrets his decision to let Victor and Sherlock stay in the same stateroom and the consequences thereafter. However, he hardens his heart and does what **he** thinks is best for his brother.

"The only way to get Sherlock back," says he with a hard heart, knowing perfectly well that this could break his brother, "is to break his trust in that man... Andrea dear, please get me the list for the Third Class passengers. And take him," he points to Gregson, "a good gun always comes in handy."

"Yes, sir." A click of heels and she's gone with Victor's valet.

"What are you doing?"

Mycroft flashes a false smirk at him, "What I do for a livelihood."

Victor calms down as his scheming mind comes into foreground, looking thoughtful, "I have this," he pulls out Sherlock's 12 carat ring and shows it to Mycroft, "might help."  But Mycroft simply waves it away.

"You underestimate my brother, Victor. He'll fall to no such thing. He'll know that we've put it in Watson's pocket, if that's what you're suggesting."

"Then?"

"You just watch," says he, his eyes icy and cold, his voice transforming into a growl, "I'll have him back."

Andrea returns after some twenty minutes, the list tucked under Mr. Gregson's arms. He hands it to Mycroft, who after some moments of going through the names frowns in confusion.

"His... Watson's name isn't there," Victor stammers out, "he's a stowaway, travelling without ticket..."

"Give him over to the master-at-arms?" Gregson suggests.

"Of course his name isn't there!" Mycroft points out, "he said that he had won his ticket in card games. He'd be under some other name. We'll have to find which one. Andrea dear," he rose again, "kindly get me the health inspection log entries."

She nods and leaves without a single question, having utmost faith in Mycroft's plans. Meanwhile, Victor frowns, not being able to understand what Mycroft was trying to achieve by finding John's alias, "What are you planning to do, Mycroft? What else, I mean? If we give him away-"

"He'll simply go and find him!" Mycroft snaps irritably, making the older Alpha cringe, "The trust needs to be broken if they have to be separated," he gazes around at one of the smaller cushions lying on the divan. He picks it up, patting it slightly, "This will help immensely."

* * *

John and Sherlock enter and run laughing between the rows of stacked cargo covered in nets. John takes his coat off and deposits it on Sherlock's shoulders, hugging himself against the cold after the dripping heat of the boiler room. Sherlock wants to return it back after a cutting retort of him being as strong as a horse, but he doesn't as John's fingers wrap around his. Anyway, he wasn't going to need that, was he?

"Wow!" says he in amazement looking all around, "there's all important stuff here, isn't it?"

"Furniture," Sherlock agrees, forgotten that some of it belong to Victor as well, "Automobiles, heavy things."

Sherlock pulls him over against one of the wooden cargo boxes, smiling enticingly as he sits on it, with John settling between his legs. The surface is almost as wide as a bed. John puts an arm around his waist, loving and protective as Sherlock grabs the collar of his shirt and guides him on top of him, settling his back against a box on top of the surface, looking into his eyes with such an imploring, pleading stare. It is the moment of truth and they both know it. John licks his lips as Sherlock's gaze stops on them. He strokes Sherlock's face, cherishing him with everything that he has. His hand rests on his cheek, his eyes wide and adoring.

Sherlock's hand rests on that of John's, running his fingertips over the knuckles, the rough skin. He wants to explore it all, memorise the patterns of his callosities. He presses the briefest of kisses to it, not breaking his eye-contact with him. He wants to look away and close his eyes, but he does not, for the fear the he would miss something precious. Every moment was so prized, so irreplaceable.

John looks down and raises Sherlock's hand to his lips, kissing the back of his fingers a little longer than a normal gentleman would. A small sound escapes Sherlock's lips, making John chuckle softly.

"What?" he asks breathlessly, covering up his embarrassment.

"Did that tickle?"

"Why should it?" he demands stubbornly, eliciting silent spells of laughter from John, "Hunting for compliments again? How very pedestrian!"

"You're only inviting me for a challenge, love," says he and kisses his palm this time, with tongue attacking his flesh tenderly. Sherlock does not make a single noise as every nerve tingles within him, making him want to seize him and press his lips to his. But he resists, always the rebellious one at heart; he does not want John to have his way. John only smirks at him from under heavy eyelids as he laps again, taking the soft flesh between his teeth for an electrifying moment. He barely notices the gooseflesh rising on his forearms.

Sherlock's breath hitches, his pulse rate has already reached its limit. It couldn't be any faster than it already was. John continues attacking his flesh with teeth and tongue while trailing his fingers over his hand, the veins, the tendons, the spaces between the fingers. Sherlock knew very well about what happened between an Alpha and an Omega, he had been taught all that back when his gender was determined. All the knowledge has never prepared him for this, the feeling of truly being with someone else, the feeling of stimulation, desire and want and need. He bites back a soft moan when he sees the arousal in John's eyes and when he registers the Alpha muskiness saturating the whole room. John's face is flushed as he finishes with a wet kiss on his fingertips. There's virtually no sign of blue in his eyes as he stammers out, "Well, that... was eventful."

By this time, both of them are half-panting and half-laughing at John's words. Their palms meet again, their fingertips gently touching and intertwining. The smile disappears from Sherlock's face.

"You nervous?" John asks. The tension is palpable and almost overflowing. How could Sherlock be nervous? It was meant to be.

"Au contraire, mon amour," He attempts to joke as leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. His voice is uncertain and yet so sure, "Make love to me, John."


	13. Moment Of Truth

John looks into his eyes, his breath stuck in his chest as Sherlock places his hand over where his heart is, beating frantically, wanting to transfer itself into John's hands and his custody. John takes one final look at him before leaning toward him and making their lips meet, gentle and hesitant as always, as he steers them into building passion. Sherlock's fingers thread themselves in his sandy hair as John's reach out to unbutton his shirt, taking care of the buttons coming apart, rather than tearing at it, like an object of worship and reverence.

Suddenly, John finds himself closer to Sherlock than he has ever been as his shirt is off too, pressing chest to chest. He can feel John, not just the feeling of being pressed together in the most intimate way till now, but with all that he is. Sherlock cannot help but smile at how good his body feels against him. It should've been alien, and terrifying like the potential of their liaison had felt for the first time. But it doesn't; it's as though the arousal consumes and overpowers everything.

There's still charcoal deposit in John's nails and on his fingers, he realises as he runs them along his chest. His touches are like fire sweeping across Sherlock's skin, burning trails of flames wherever his fingers manage to drift, the charcoal depositing soot as they travel along his whole body from head to toe, drawing the icy chill of the rest of his skin into sharp relief. John kisses him as if he wants to steal the very breath from his lungs and leave him panting and gasping for oxygen he would never find. Sherlock's chest rises and falls rapidly, every breath feels like the last one, every heartbeat feels like an explosion. The combined daze of the Estrus and the utter passion and the stormof their relationship lends an even more fiery aspect to what they are about to do. John withdraws his lips from his and goes down, the damp and warm mouth attacking his neck, his tendons, intoxicating him with the scent as he feels Sherlock's fingers brush against his burgeoning arousal.

A whimper in the otherwise silent room followed by a bite into his flesh as John tries to hush himself. Sherlock tosses his head back against the hard cargo boxes as John climbs on top of him, grinding their crotches together. Many a time, John feels like he cannot do this. This is too intense. And if this classified as intense, he had no idea what knotting Sherlock would feel like. But thought doesn't stop his tongue from travelling southward, kissing his whole body in the process and marking a salacious path with his wet tongue and his trembling lips.

"John..."

The muffled exhale is too much for John as he raises one hand to cup the back of his head, his other arm going around his waist as he clings to Sherlock, returning to his lips again to draw that moan from him and feel him quake with pleasure underneath. He inhales deeply, as if wanting to drown himself in the pheromones, nose nudging in his curls as he presses soft patient kisses to the neck he has only explored with charcoal before. John knows how impatient Sherlock is, and he smiles at the thought of how restless he must be making him now as his tongue comes out and touches the space right behind the lobe.

Sherlock shivers beneath him, running his hands all over John's back, melting at the hypnotising something that John was doing to him. At this point, all thoughts are beyond him. His fingers reach out to unfasten the flies of his trousers, brushing his fingers teasingly against his clothed erection as if wanting to punish him for the agonizingly slow ordeal John puts him through.

John buries his sound into the hollow between his neck and his shoulder, and raises himself to look into his eyes again, hating every second of the loss of contact. Sherlock's eyes burn with an intensity he has never seen before, the translucency of his eyes gone and replaced by a dark orb of lust as he pulls him down to join their lips with bruising force. John had meant to be tender when he realised that this was where it had been going, that this was going to be inevitable, but Sherlock makes it clear that he wishes no gentleness, none of that 'fly me to the stars' stuff. He wants directness, intensity. He wants to be broken and then mended, over and over again. He wants John to be reckless as a drunkard with a shattered bottle, as dangerous as its jagged edges.

That single gesture is enough to push John over the edge as his trousers come off, the Alpha rage and lust combining to consume him. He tears at Sherlock's trousers and his boxers, drinking in the glorious man underneath him: the faint glow of his skin, his flushed face and chest, the clumps of his hair standing on end in wild disarray, or else plastered against his forehead and temples, and the deliciously irregular breath, it's all so different from the man who had posed for him a couple of hours ago. If there had been a mirror, Sherlock would not have recognised himself. The sound of the waves breaking against the ship fade into a low buzz as all he can hear is Sherlock's breath and his own blood singing in his ears. John wishes he could have captured this moment as well in his sketches.

"Do it," Sherlock pants, his voice an animalistic growl as his fingers wrap around him, making John's knees buckle, "Just... do... it!"

All thoughts flown from his mind, John leans in and kisses him deeply, opening his mouth instinctively against his, and snaking his tongue in, entwining it with his, feeling their naked bodies pressed together, smelling of sweat and pheromones. His arms reach out to grab his hips as he places Sherlock's legs over his shoulders. He wants to see his face all the time. John couldn't afford to miss out on anything that flickers on his face.

The lack of protection doesn't even cross their minds as John takes a breath to steady himself, before urging his legs a little apart. He wants to tell him how beautiful and how perfect he looks, beneath him, flushed and panting and, although Sherlock would never agree about it, needy. A growl of impatience and a snarl is all John gets for watching him like that.

Slowly, he inserts a finger inside of him, biting his lip from the sensation of the taut muscle around him. Sherlock inhales sharply, fumbling around for anything, anything at all, finally managing to pull at some ropes tying the cargo together. Another finger and John doesn't seem to want to stop. Sherlock looks up at the Alpha above him, his Alpha as his face twists into the most extraordinary of contortions upon feeling the pain, his body jerking at its intensity. John stops almost immediately, afraid to have hurt him, but this one time he would consent to hurt, and scream, at his touch. John slowly scissors his fingers inside him, watching him writhe and twist below him as he slowly pushes himself on his entrance and slowly sinks into him.

Sherlock had expected the pain, when it came. But he gasps at its sharpness; it's not like any pain he has felt before. It is dizzying, dark and terrifyingly welcome, feeling John inside him, feeling that unbelievable amount of heat radiating from him as he slowly pushes inside of him, his entire body engulfed in John's fire

"John!" he lets out another shuddery exhale, placing his hands on his waist and tossing his head back. He scratches his body with nails, as if fighting him. His thrusts become more powerful, more intense as Sherlock keeps fighting tooth and nail. John can make him drunk; and every time his eyes flashes into his, he forsakes breathing. Flames seem to lick their way through his very veins, heating him from the inside until he is fairly certain that he is going to die if they don't stop.

And they don't. John slowly becomes harsher, merciless, speechless at the sensation of the overwhelming array of pheromones saturating the air and the stirrings inside him. It's almost suffocating, as he feels his vision slowly going blind. Leaning forward, he urges Sherlock toward him until their lips join and crush against each other, driving away the pain as Sherlock moves with him, still unable to find the rhythm. Sherlock doesn't blame him, in fact he likes the unpredictability of his movements. He likes being surprised.

"John!" He groans into his mouth, as John realises what was happening. He cannot help but smile against his skin as he lets his baser instincts take over.

"Harder!" Sherlock's voice transmutes into a snarl, the pain becoming a warmth that only could grow. Warmth that slowly morphs into pleasure.

"Sherlock!" John manages to groan as he feels the edges on Bonding closing in upon them for the first time. Sherlock bites into him, at his lips as John feels the scrape of broken nails. That is the last conscious thought that deserts his mind, and his own fury takes hold of him, rage and a lust that comes on him like black thunder on a mountain, a cloud that hides all from him and him from all. He plunges in harder, deeper, the animal in him coming out.

"John!" Is all Sherlock can call out, as he feels the wave of Bonding upon them too. The feeling grows. Grows, and stops his breath. And takes his breath and his pain and his mind away from his body, so that there is nothing but his body, and the light and fire they were making together.

But it is not enough. John wants more, more, more. After all, there is only a body to make love to, no matter how beautiful. But it just isn't enough to express all that is cooped inside him. He can make that heart beat stronger than thunder, and yet he cannot reach out to it. Every inch of his body is in contact with every inch of Sherlock, but John wishes to reach out to all that he loves more than just his physical form. John wishes desperately that for one night, just for this one night, let them be just souls, bathing and basking in whatever they had for each other, just for one night if they could only reach out for each other till eternity, then maybe he could have everything all at once. Then maybe, he could have that madness, that heart, that eternal and pure soul that belonged to Sherlock.

John bites down on Sherlock's collarbone harshly, as if he wants to draw blood, as if he wants to devour him and let himself be devoured by the sensations of Bonding. He wants to possess his soul, consume him entirely in his fire, but then it seems like he cannot possess him without losing his own.

"JOHNN!" Sherlock screams, drowning the whole ship in that shriek as he feels his impending orgasm coming to him. He pins John's head to his shoulder, wanting him to bite deeper, mark him as his, as his Bonded for the whole world to see. He kisses John's forehead as he grabs chunks of his sandy hair, trying to tear them apart, trying to tear him apart till they merged into one form, tangled irreversibly in one another. Sherlock could not bear it any longer and yet he wants this to go on, for the whole night, for the whole of his life, he wants John to keep making love to him for every waking moment, for every moment he lived and then beyond. His thrusts became more powerful, more intense. Not for one moment does it strike Sherlock that John is about to seed him, and by the next morning, he would indeed bear his child.

He is surprised that he welcomes that idea, the idea of the perfection of their child, the proof of their union, apart from the powerful, invisible seam that they would feel whenever they would be away from each other.

"Harder!" he grunts, his voice destructive and lethal as he feels John hitting his prostrate aggressively. John's instincts can do nothing but comply; his Omega was asking him for more.

His Omega.

The thought itself sends John almost tumbling over the edge, almost pulling Sherlock down with him. He controls himself. He was going to come after Sherlock, like he was always supposed to.

"Look... into... my... eyes..." Sherlock manages to pant. John does, not looking away for a single moment, even when the strain becomes too much for him, he stares into those glassy orbs of Sherlock, still pushing inside and pulling out of him.

He can no longer hear the cargo slamming against the wall. He can no longer hear his own voice, or the blood rushing through him or Sherlock's voice calling for him, so consumed he is by the pleasure riding out in waves, clashing the fantasy with reality. He doesn't know whether he is saying anything. He doesn't even know that stewards are closing in upon them. All he knows that Sherlock and he were bonding, and that he was looking into Sherlock's eyes, his arms around Sherlock's legs. He could sell his soul to him if he asked for it, only he wouldn't. Sherlock had him already. All he feels is that Sherlock is close, tethering on the edge, and he gives a final thrust into him.

"JOHNN!" He screams, repeatedly banging his head against the wall, not caring that it can split apart as he comes. John lets go of himself and allows himself to come some moments after Sherlock has, his eyes desperate, his mouth slightly ajar as he seeds him. He doesn't close his eyes, he forces them to stay open, afraid to miss those rare moments of emotion flickering through him.

They remain like that for some moments, panting, wheezing, smiling at what they have done. Then John pulls out of him and the only thing Sherlock can think of is John's warm and sweaty weight above him, glowing and strong and ever so gentle, ever so loving as he leans down to kiss him tenderly. Sherlock would have told him that he loved him had he not been feeling so spent. He can already feel that link between them, the invisible and everlasting Bond between them.

"Six," Sherlock declares all of a sudden, nuzzling his nose in John's hair, his eyes scanning the side of his face as he presses kisses there. And before John can frown in confusion, he explains himself with a darker, endearing flush of his cheeks, "Times I said your name."

John flushes just as dark as he touches his nose and his mouth, his other hand feeling for his steady heartbeat as they lie together in the sticky, peaceful aftermath of sex, "I wish we could lay here forever."

Sherlock wishes too, to stay in John's arms forever like that, against the hard surface, basking in his love and attention. But he instead asks, "Are you alright?"

But before John can answer, there's a noise as the door to the cargo hold is forced open. The stewards have reached them. John doesn't want to leave. He really doesn't mind being caught in the best thing that has ever happened to him. But Sherlock bolts himself up, shoving him clothes in his direction, "Hurry up, John!"

Muttering silent curses, John sits up straight, managing to tie two buttons of his shirt and fastening the flies of his trousers. Sherlock almost drags him towards the other end as they exit through a door and find themselves at the foot of the staircase connecting the third class berths and the firemen's passage. They rush upstairs, not knowing where it will lead them. At last they manage to come through a crew door onto the deck. Its chilly, but the cold doesn't manage to attack them as they embrace, feeling for each other's presence, grinning.

"Come away with me," says John, out of blue.

"What?"

"Come away with me," he repeats, "I know it's stupid, and... I know that I don't have much, I pretty much have next to nothing... but Sherlock, when the ship docks, don't look back..."

Sherlock's smile disappears, as he weighs his options. It has been only three days since they had met. Only three.

John looks almost afraid when he suggests this to Sherlock, but he emboldens himself, "Sherlock, Victor isn't the real problem... Mycroft is. Even if Victor breaks off his engagement with you, Mycroft would certainly..."

"We've bonded," he lets out a shuddery gasp, as if the word itself reverberated the physical and psychological seam that they were linked in, "Mycroft can't separate us."

Sherlock knows that he is only giving John false reassurance. Mycroft could go to any limits. And a bond, after excruciating consequences could be dissolved upon the death of a mate. Sherlock doesn't know whether he would be strong enough to handle it.

"When the ship reaches New York, I'm getting off with you," Sherlock, even though he loathed to admit it, feels a slight twinge in his heart to let his brother go, but... he isn't going to take it anymore, "I have some money, some savings to my name. I'll withdraw them before Mycroft can close the bank account..."

He stops suddenly, feeling John's fingers on his lips. Their breath clouds around them in the now freezing air, but they don't even feel the cold, "I don't care what you do with the money. We're gonna be together."

Sherlock's eyes glow at the wondrous prospect of being free from the clutches, and more than that, being with John. He simply leans down and kisses him passionately, putting his arms around him, lost in the feeling of his lips moving against his.

If there's anything that could pull them apart at this moment, it was the world trembling underneath their feet, which it did.


	14. Can I Get Some Ice, Please?

Fredrick Fleet and Reginald Lee were on lookouts duty since the dusk, First Officer Murdoch checks with Chief Officer Wilde. Ever the watchful officer, he stations himself on the starboard side of the bridge, his eyes alert and awake as he wraps the coat around him, turning up the collar against the chilly wind. Down on the deck, he sees Sherlock and John kissing each other passionately. For one moment he frowns, and then realises that one of them is an Omega. He smiles, blushing slightly and looks away, unlike the lookouts in the crow's nest, who gawk at them.

"Lee?" Fleet nudges his fellow lookout, "It's the same two again! Look at them, would ya?"

"Ooh," says Lee, shivering violently with the cold, "They're a bloody sight warmer than we are. Wish I had an Omega too..."

"Shut up, yeh pervert! And get away," says Fleet, giggling a little, jostling with Lee to warm himself up, "I'd rather fight with ya, if I were to warm meself up, a'right?"

"Wish I had those bleeding binoculars!"

They both have a good laugh at that one as they turn to watch out the sea again. It is Fleet whose expression falls first. Glancing forward again, he does a double take. The colour drains out of his face as he sees a massive iceberg, 500 yards out, almost invisible in the darkness. The ship is heading head-on for it.

"Bugger me!"

Lee is almost stunned into inaction as Fleet grabs the rope of the lookout bell and pulls at it with all his strength. The clang of it echoes sharply all around, carried over by the cold night wind, inspiring alarm and panic through those who can hear it, much like the sound of it. Murdoch turns, instantly alarmed by the sound of the bell, and gazes into the distance, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed and forcing themselves to see past infinity.

Fleet reaches out past Lee to grab the telephone, which rings in the enclosed wheelhouse. He waits for precious seconds before Sixth Officer Moody can unhurriedly pick it up, a brittle cup of steaming lemon tea in his gloved hand.

"What do you see?" Moody asks into the phone, completely relaxed, in control.

Hitchins looks a little panicked when he hears Fleet's voice over, "Iceberg, right out!"

"Thank you," saying this, Moody hangs up coolly but his relaxed manner is betrayed by the unnoticed crash of the teacup at his feet as he urgently yells to Murdoch, "Iceberg, right out!"

Murdoch sees it, his jaw slackening and after a second of the sighting, rushes to the engine room telegraph. While signalling 'Full Speed Astern', he yells to Quartermaster Hitchins, who is at the wheel, "Hard-a-starboard!"

Hitchins grabs the rudder, and turns it with as much force as he can apply, his bland face colouring rapidly and the veins standing in his forehead as he grits his teeth out of the effort. From behind a Moody completely in control while his fingers tremble even if his fingers are insulated by leather gloves, Murdoch singlehandedly turns the two engine telegraphs to 'Full Speed Astern'.

* * *

In the engine room, Chief Engineer Bell is just checking the consistency of the soup he has warming on a steam manifold when the engine telegraph clangs, then goes incredibly to 'Full Speed Astern'. He and the other engineers just stare at it a second, unbelieving. Then Bell reacts, not caring that the scalding hot soup spills over his trouser-knee, "Full astern!"

The engineers and greasers rush about like madmen to close steam valves and start braking the mighty propeller shafts to a stop. Several echo Bell's cry. In the Boiler rooms, the stokers are working as per their usual routine when the indicator light shines red, saying **STOP**.

"Shut all the dampers," they yell to each other, "shut them!"

* * *

"The helm's hard over, sir," Moody calls out to Murdoch.

From the bridge, Murdoch watches the berg growing straight ahead. The bow finally starts to turn left. His jaw clenches as the bow turns with agonizing slowness. He holds his breath as the horrible physics play out.

"Come on, turn," he mutters to himself, his breath, "Turn, damn you!"

For one moment, there's victory on his face as his features relax upon seeing the bow turn away from the ship. He prepares his thanks to the Father in the Heavens, but the ship has too much momentum and too small a turning radius as the starboard side of the ship collides with the iceberg, making the wood beneath Murdoch's palms quake. He looks down at his trembling hand, and the trembling ship, and then at the startled couple below on the deck, John and Sherlock, who have broken away and are looking in astonishment as the berg sails past, blocking out the sky like a mountain. Fragments break off it and crash down onto the deck, and they have to jump back to avoid flying chunks of ice. A flare of guilt passes through Murdoch upon seeing the bemused couple and he rushes into action again, to do anything in his power to save the ship. He rings the watertight door alarm, quickly throwing the switch that closes them.

"Hard a 'port!" says he, trying to clear the stern from the impact.

* * *

In the boiler rooms, the hull buckles in four feet with a sound like thunder. Like a sledgehammer beating along outside the ship, the berg splits the hull plates and the icy waters of the sea pour in, sweeping the stokers off their feet. Rivets pop as the steel plate of the hull flexes under the load.

The stokers hear the door alarm and realise that they would be trapped if they don't manage themselves out of there before the watertight doors shut down. They scramble through the swirling water to the watertight door between the Boiler Rooms. The room is full of water vapour as the cold sea strikes the red hot furnaces. Stokers yell to each other scrambling through the door as it comes down like a slow guillotine.

"Go lads, go!"

* * *

In his stateroom, surrounded by piles of plans while making notes in his ever-present book, Mr. Andrews looks up at the sound of a cut-crystal light fixture tinkling like a windchime. He feels the shudder run through the ship as he splays his palms on the table, almost as if he can feel the ship's pain. Too much of his soul is in the ship for him not to feel its mortal wound. A steward comes after a few minutes, running and panting.

"Sir, they need you, sir. Officer Murdoch, he's asked for you, sir!"

Without wasting a second on dwelling upon what has happened, he rushes out of his stateroom, carrying an armload of rolled up ship's plans.

* * *

In the First Class Smoking Room, Colonel Gracie watches his highball vibrating on the table. He gives a short laugh, "I didn't know we had earthquakes on water too!"

We're going like lunatics, I tell you," says Sir Duff Gordon, "I have fifty dollars that says we make it into New York Tuesday night!"

* * *

In the Palm Court, with its high arched windows, Molly Brown holds up her drink to a passing waiter, "Hey, can I get some ice here, please?"

Silently, a moving wall of ice fills the window behind her. The waiter stares at it in bewilderment. She doesn't see it. It disappears astern.

"Hey, sonny! Some ice, here!"

The waiter scrambles to acquiesce. She rolls her eyes as he goes away, "Remind me to write a letter of complaint to the White Star Line, Noëlle," says she to the Countess, "These people are useless!"

* * *

On the deck, John and Sherlock stare at each other, watching their linked hands with an expression of mutual anxiety. It's Sherlock who first rushes to the starboard rail in time to see the berg moving aft down the side of the ship. John exhales, thinking about what had just happened.

"We hit an iceberg," John's face is covered with shock and uncertainty about the future they had been planning minutes ago, "didn't we, Sherlock?"

Sherlock is just about to say that they did, but then he sees John's blanched face, and feels his distress through their Bond. He changes his wording, "Looks okay. I don't see anything."

"Could it have damaged the ship?"

He attempts a fake reassuring smile, "It didn't seem like much of a scratch. I'm sure we're okay."

John knows Sherlock is lying, he can feel it, but he says nothing at Sherlock's attempts to calm him down. They turn around to see a couple of steerage guys, kicking the ice around the deck, laughing merrily. Sherlock just holds on to John's hand, subconsciously finding his anchor, then finding a chunk of ice on his feet, he picks it up and shoves down John's back in an effort to relax the situation. John grins and shivers at the chill and makes a snowball out of the rest of the ice, projecting it in Sherlock's direction and feeling the tension ease.

* * *

On the starboard side of the ship, the alarm bells still clatter mindlessly, seeming to reflect Murdoch's inner state. He is in shock, unable to get a grip on what just happened. He just ran the biggest ship in history into an iceberg on its maiden voyage. He is sweating in spite of the freezing cold, as he exhales a shaky breath, his voice stiff and unnatural as he orders Moody, "Note the time. Enter it in the log."

Hitchins is in almost the same panicky state. He was at the wheel at the time of the collision. They both turn around as Captain Smith rushes out of his cabin onto the bridge, tucking in his shirt.

"What was that, Mr. Murdoch?"

He swallows, "An iceberg, sir," his voice remains admirably steady as he explains his actions, while the colour drains from the captain's cheeks, "I put her hard a' starboard and run the engines full astern, but it was too close. I tried to port around it, but she hit... and I-"

Captain Smith walks out. Together they rush out onto the starboard wing, and Murdoch points. Smith looks into the darkness aft, then wheels around to him, his eyes not believing what had happened.

"Find the carpenter and get him to sound the ship."

* * *

In the G Deck berths, Mike is suddenly tossed in his bunk by the impact. He hears a sound like the greatly amplified squeal of a skate on ice. One of the Swedes jump down their bunks to find the floor wet. In the dark, he fumbles around for the switch and naps on the light. The floor is covered with 3 inches of freezing water, and more coming in. He pulls the door open, and steps out into the corridor, which is flooded.

"What the hell?!" Mike exclaims, and then checks for the bunk below, "Where's John?"

Suddenly, Greg appears in the doorway, searching for him, "Mike, get out! Something's happened."

He sees the bunk empty. Mike follows his gaze as he jumps down, grabbing John's and his kitbags,  "We've got to find John!"

"He'll be with Sherlock! We've got to find Molly!" Saying this, he rushes out, with Mike on his heels, pounding on others' doors, getting everybody up and out. The alarm spreads in several other languages.

"That's the other side of the ship! We've got to go up!"

"You can come with me, or you can go, I don't care!"

Mike and Greg are in a crowd of steerage men clogging the corridors, heading aft away from the flooding. Many of them have grabbed suitcases and duffel bags, some of which are soaked. Mike nods reluctantly, and follows him, pulling his cardigan over him.

* * *

In the B Deck corridor, Bruce Ismay, dressed in pyjamas under the topcoat, hurries down the corridor, headed for the bridge. An officious steward comes along the other direction, getting the few concerned passengers back into their rooms. A couple of people have come out into the corridor in robes and slippers. Another steward hurries along, reassuring them.

"Why have the engines stopped?" Lady Duff-Gordon confronts him, "I felt a shudder..."

"I shouldn't worry, ma'am," says he reassuringly, "We've likely thrown a propeller blade, that's the shudder you felt. May I bring you anything?"

"You there," Victor rushes out of his stateroom followed by Mycroft. He suddenly calls out to the steward, "Get me Anna Daniels, suite number D 74!"

"Sir, there's no emergency-" the steward begins his practiced dialogue but Mycroft cuts him off, "And the master-at-arms as well!"

"Sir...?" he looks bemused, wondering what sort of calamitous fools he has run into, but Victor barks at him, "Now, you moron!"

The steward scampers away, and Victor throws a victorious smirk in Mycroft's direction. One more step and the plan would be put into action. Mycroft doesn't return it, wondering how his brother is going to react to it. There would be pain, surely, but it would be for the best.

* * *

In the chartroom, Captain Smith stands, studying the commutator. He turns to Andrews, standing behind him, "A five degree list in less than ten minutes."

The ship's carpenter enters behind him, out of breath and clearly unnerved, but he manages to stutter anyway, "She's making water fast... in the forward holds and in boiler room six. The mail hold is worse- She's all buckled in-"

"Have you seen the damage in the mail hold?" asks Andrews, his eyes anxious.

"No, I'm afraid sir, she's already underwater."

Ismay enters, his movements quick with anger and frustration as he runs his fingers through his hair. Smith glances at him with annoyance.

"Why have we stopped?"

In this hour of dire emergency, Smith and Andrews look upon him condescendingly as an ignorant man. It does not matter to them anymore that he's their employer. Smith grits his teeth as Andrews looks at him, waiting for the answer and his reaction, "We've struck ice."

"Well, do you think the ship is seriously damaged?" says he, thinking of the insurance, "or is it like the one at Cherbourg?"

Smith glares at him, wanting to tell him that almost colliding with another ship and colliding with an iceberg that has nine-tenths of its volume underwater certainly has a difference, but he doesn't reply because he knows that Ismay won't realize the emergency, "S'cuse me."

He pushes past Ismay, with Andrews and the carpenter following behind him.

* * *

A few gentlemen come up onto the well deck. They lean on the forward rail, watching the steerage men playing soccer with chunks of ice.

"I guess it's nothing too serious," says one of them after sometime, "I'm going back to my cabin to read."

A twenty-ish Yale man pops through the door wearing a topcoat over pyjamas, "Say, did I miss the fun?"

"Yeah, sort of. Apparently, it hit over there."

John and Sherlock come up the steps from the well deck, which are right next to the three gentlemen. They stare as the couple climbs over the locked gate. A moment later Captain Smith rounds the corner, followed by Andrews and the carpenter. They have come down from the bridge by the outside stairs. The three men, their faces grim, crush right past John and Sherlock. Andrews barely glances at him, his face tense, and Sherlock knows it's worse than it looks.

"Can you shore up?" asks Andrews to the carpenter.

"Not unless the pumps get ahead." The inspection party goes down the stairs to the well deck. John and Sherlock stare after them, "Is it bad?" he asks Sherlock.

"I don't know. I remember Mr. Andrews telling me about the watertight compartments. The ship's designed to survive an iceberg. At any rate, it seems worse than Cherbourg."

John spins around to him, ears perking up, "What happened at Cherbourg?"

"An accident," he replied, "Titanic's huge displacement caused two smaller nearby ships to be lifted by a bulge of water, then dropped into a trough. The engines had to be stopped all of a sudden, and put reverse."

"What?" John exclaimed, "I never felt anything like it."

"You can't feel anything like that if you're on the ship, John. Mr. Andrews told me about it. The mooring cables of one of those ships could not take the sudden strain and snapped, swinging her around stern-first towards Titanic. You remember, we were delayed for one hour in there. That's what had happened."

"So? I mean, after that?"

"A nearby tugboat came to the rescue by taking the rogue ship under tow and Titanic's engines were put "full astern", avoiding a collision by a matter of about 4 feet."

"Holy Mary! So this time, it's..."

"We've hit a berg for real," he nods, not letting go of his hand, "This IS bad."

John looks up at the Omega's searching eyes, "We should tell Mycroft about this."

Sherlock heaves a sigh of despair, "And it just got worse."

John merely smiles, "Come with me, Sherlock. I jump, you jump... Right?"

Sherlock looks at him, watching his face, studying him. Finally he gives in, "Right."

* * *

As John and Sherlock cross the B Deck foyer, entering the corridor, they see Gregson waiting for them in the hall as they approach the room. He gives them a tight-lipped smile.

"We've been looking for you, sir."

Sherlock simply rolls his eyes, not realising the trap they were walking into. Gregson follows and, unseen, moves close behind John and smoothly slips a plain golden wedding ring into the pocket of his overcoat.

Victor and Mycroft wait in the sitting room, along with Andrea, the Master-at-Arms and two stewards. Silence falls as Sherlock and John enter, with Sherlock promptly announcing, "Something serious had happened-!" but he stops abruptly as a Swedish woman rushes to John, clinging to his chest, sobbing gratefully into it and she retracts John's hand away from Sherlock.

"Sven!" she wails, as Sherlock watches the couple, gaze transfixed with horror. He tries to call out John's name, ask him who the woman is and what she means to him, but he finds that words don't come to him. He wants to shove her away from his Alpha. But his throat is dry, and he feels the world spinning around him. John tries to shove that woman away, and go to his Omega, to comfort him, tell him that what he is thinking isn't true, but she simply doesn't budge away. Sherlock's eyes travel downwards, and his breath stops right there, lungs stabbed by a sharp pain, worse than anything he has ever felt. She's pregnant.

Sherlock swallows, pushing those thoughts aside. Mycroft stares at him in disbelief. The Estrus cycle was over. He looks from John to his brother in horror, and realises that they have already Bonded. Nevertheless, he manages to speak, taking Sherlock's arm gently and pulling him aside, "Oh Sherlock, what have you done?"

Sherlock snaps out of his reverie and looks up at his brother's eyes, furrowed with anguish, lost in wide-eyed and horrified thought. For the first time, his lips tremble as he looks into his grey eyes. Mycroft's grip loosens as Sherlock's expression makes everything clear for him. Beside them, the woman, Anna, is still sobbing.

"Åh, tack gode Gud att du är här," she sobs in Swedish. _Oh, thank god you're here! "_ Han saknar sin pappa," _He misses his papa_. She takes his hand and places it on her tummy as John stares down at her and then at Sherlock, begging him not to believe it. He snatches his hand back.

"Vart tog du vägen, Sven?" _Where did you go, Sven?_

"Sven?" Sherlock finally manages to stammer, his voice choked with betrayal, hurt and confusion.

"What the hell?" John looks at her, completely disgusted, "Get off me!"

"Vad gjorde du med den där mannen, Sven?" _What were you doing with that man, Sven?_ She demands, " Varför blev du hålla händerna?" _Why were you holding hands?_

"Yes _Sven_ ," Victor pipes in, sneering at his victory, "Where have you been-?"

"Stop it!" Sherlock roars, the rage pumping through him so fiercely that he feels positively ill, "Stop it, now!"

The woman backs away, clearly terrified, and then does a take at John's hand, "Sven, var är din vigselring?" _Sven, where is your wedding ring?_ She asks him, brandishing her own plain gold wedding band at him. Sherlock catches the malevolent glint of it, and looks at John wide-eyed, waiting for an explanation.

"Yes, Sven," Victor interrupts again, "Why aren't you wearing your wedding ring?"

"He isn't married, damn it!" Sherlock manages to speak through clenched teeth, but Victor whips around, as if he had been waiting for this, "Isn't he? Search him, gentlemen."

Gregson pulls at John's coat and John shakes his head in dismay, shrugging out of it. The Master-at-Arms pats him down. Gregson fishes in the coat pocket, until he has found an identical gold wedding band.

"Your wedding band, son," says he, handing it to the Swedish woman. Sherlock feels the ground slipping from beneath his feet. The woman sobs hysterically, attempting to insert it into his ring finger, but John jerks away, and takes it off, flicking it away at Victor's feet.

"Sherlock!" he calls to him, "Don't you believe it!"

Sherlock could feel his Bond tearing at him, wanting to make him believe that this woman was mistaken, but all he can manage to do is stand straight. His knees feel wobbly. He wonders if John could feel his heart breaking. He wonders if John could feel the Bond tearing him apart too. He can feel the anguish in John, his repeated pleas, but the evidence in front of his eyes is just too much.

He had let John seed him, he had thought about their child. He had thought about leaving his whole life for him. He had believed that John would come down after him if he ever slipped.

He remembers John flying with him. He remembers John dancing with him, pointing out the stars. He recalls that honest face in the gym. He recalls Jennifer Wilson's case. He recalls John kissing his fingers. He remembers John's face as they Bonded, as he knotted him. He remembers the post-coital daze and the feeling of John inside him, on top of him. He remembers John sketching him, the look in his eyes. He remembers John's proposal. And then he looks at the wedding band at Victor's feet.

"John...?" his voice sounds so weak, so painful; it feels to John like nails screeching against glass.

John had said that. He had said 'You jump, I jump'. And there he was, with that woman, calling him Sven. with his child in her. Was 'John' even his real name, or did he lie even to her?

"Sherlock," he takes large strides across the room in his Omega's direction, wanting to comfort him, to shield him from the pain he was feeling. John could feel it too, he could feel his trust crumbling into ashes and dust. Meanwhile, Sherlock feels stunned into feeling nothing but pain, excruciating pain. He wants the anger to take him completely, to block out the pain at least. But the throb of pain forces itself through the anger. Sherlock wants to thrust it away. He wants to feel enraged, he wants to be eaten up with anger. It would at least make it easier to ignore the agony that was being barely contained inside of him.

"Stand back!" Victor cries out, coming between John and Sherlock, and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's figure. Mycroft visibly flinches at the sight of Victor's hands on Sherlock.

At that point, John loses it. He takes a quick sharp intake of breath, and swings his fist at Victor's nose, painfully colliding with it, and almost breaking it under his fingers.

"You dirty pervert!" he screams, as Gregson and the stewards lunge forward to restrain him, "Get away from him! Sherlock, they put it in my pocket!"

"Did we now?" Mycroft comes forth as Victor groans with well-deserved pain, "Care to explain how she," he points at Anna, "has a similar wedding band?" The Swedish woman starts sobbing again.

"Sherlock, I swear, I've never seen this woman before-!"

"Vårt barn, Sven!" she sobs when she hears John declaring that he doesn't know her, "Låt min Sven gå!" _Our baby, Sven! Let my Sven go!_ She tugs at the master-at-arms, who takes out handcuffs.

"Right then," says he, ignoring the woman, "Now don't make a fuss, lad! Assaulting a fellow passenger?!"

"Take him away!" Victor manages to whimper, blood running from his nose freely, as he tilts his head backwards. 

"Sherlock, look at me," John pleads, "Don't you believe them, Sherlock! She's not my wife! She's Swedish, for God's sake!"

"Who denied that?" Andrea waves a couple of papers in front of Sherlock as John shouts to him, "He got on the ship as Sven Gundersen, Swedish, suite number G 60," it's John's Titanic ticket in her fingers.

"Sherlock, don't listen to them... " John pleads, "I don't know her! I don't know about the ring! You know it! I'd never do that to you!"

Despite not being able to think, Sherlock's mind travels to the part when he went to his suite. G 60 indeed. A single tear rolls down his cheek that he manages to brush away instantly, as he feels Mrs. Hudson's comforting arms around him. His eyes settle on the divan, where he had posed for John. It feels like such a long time ago.

He feels devastated, as the master-at-arms and the stewards drag a struggling John away from him. Victor pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and holds a handkerchief underneath, soaking the blood. He feels disgusted at the thought of even touched by John as he calls out to Mycroft, "The nerve of some people." Gregson accompanies Anna till her suite, as she swiftly slips into it. He discreetly passes her a check, the second half of her payment, and nods at Victor, their plan successful.

Mycroft does not reply. He simply watches his little brother trying to fight the betrayal valiantly, hating himself for every moment of pain that he causes to him. From inside the sitting room they can hear knocking and voices in the corridor.

"You should get dressed, my dear," says Mycroft, to Andrea. She nods, taking one look into Sherlock's empty eyes and goes away to her bedroom, "And you, Mrs. Hudson," he nods kindly to the old housekeeper, who seems reluctant to leave Sherlock's side, but she leaves after a nod of reassurance.

* * *

In the Chartroom, Andrews unrolls a big drawing of the ship across the chartroom table. It is a side elevation, showing all the watertight bulkheads. His hands are shaking and his breath is shuddery, as if he was beginning to die with the ship. Murdoch and Ismay hover behind Andrews and the Captain.

"This is most unfortunate, Captain," says he, "Water, 14 feet above the keel in ten minutes... in the forepeak... in all three holds... and in boiler room six.

"Alright," says Smith, nodding to show that he understands, but Ismay interrupts, "When can we get underway, do you think?"

Smith glares at him and turns his attention to Andrews' drawing. The builder points to it for emphasis as he talks, "That's five compartments. She can stay afloat with the first four compartments breached. But not five," his eyes grow fearful and guilty as he swallows, "Not five... As she goes down by the head the water will spill over the tops of the bulkheads... at E Deck... from one to the next... back and back, like a domino. There's no stopping it."

Smith looks at him, trying to understand the gravity of the situation, and then points at the diagram, "The pumps... if we open the pumps..."

"The pumps buy you time..." says Andrews, "but minutes only. From this moment," he turns to look at the carpenter, "no matter what we do..." he swallows before saying those dreadful words, "Titanic... will founder."

Ismay stares at him incredulously, as if he were joking. A hollow laugh almost escapes his throat, "But this ship can't sink!"

Andrews turns to him at once, "She is made of iron, sir! I assure you, she can," he looks down, not understanding why people couldn't comprehend the situation, "And she will. It is a mathematical certainty."

Smith looks like he has been punched in the gut, "How much time?" he asks him quietly, trying to maintain the collected facade.

Andrews waits for several moments, his brain calculating at half the speed than usual, like it has suffered a wound, Titanic's wound, "An hour. Two at most." With only few words, he manages to shake the crew in there. He averts his eyes, not able to face anyone. Ismay reels as his dream turns into his worst nightmare.

Smith speculates his actions from earlier, as he feels the imaginary accusatory looks from the ship's officers, "And how many aboard, Mr. Murdoch?"

Murdoch swallows, feeling the same guilt, as if he cannot believe the number that comes out from his mouth, "Two thousand two hundred souls aboard, sir."

Smith straightens up, taking a deep breath, and then turns to Ismay, with a derogatory sneer, "I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."

* * *

Victor turns to Sherlock, and crosses to him. He regards him coldly for a moment, then slaps him across the face. But to Sherlock, the blow is inconsequential compared to the blow his heart has been given. Mycroft's jaw muscles clench, fury rising in him at Victor.

"Such a dirty little Omega, aren't you?"

And before Mycroft can think about what he is doing, he grabs Victor's arm and twists it painfully, slamming him face-first against the wall beside the door. Victor cries out in pain and surprise. Mycroft's breath is still measured, his voice venomous, "Keep your hands off him, do you understand me?"

Victor yelps as he twists it further, "He... he's my... Omega..." he manages to pant.

"He is nobody's Omega," he restrains himself from spitting in disgust, "He's my brother. And he most certainly isn't marrying you."

He releases him, just as he hears a loud knock on the door and an urgent voice. The door opens and a steward pokes his head in, taking the liberty of walking inside.

"Sir, I've been told to ask you to please put on your lifebelt, and come up to the boat deck."

"Get out," Mycroft growls, "We're busy."

The steward persists, coming in to get the lifebelts down from the top of a dresser, just as Andrea comes out from the bedroom. Victor pushes himself free of his grip and holds his left arm in pain.

"I'm sorry about the inconvenience, Mr. Holmes, but it's Captain's orders. Please dress warmly, it's quite cold tonight."

Mycroft does a take at the older Alpha pinching the bridge of his nose, looking down at him defiantly.

"Get out," he growls, his voice quiet but only Sherlock knows how fuming he is underneath, "And don't you ever look at my brother again."

With whatever dignity he can manage, Victor clenches his jaw, taking a look at Sherlock that suggests that he hasn't given up yet, and leaves. Sherlock slumps against the divan settling down into it. The steward hands a lifebelt to Mycroft and Sherlock, and goes to comfort Andrea with another lifebelt, "Not to worry, miss, I'm sure it's just a precaution."

She takes the lifebelt he offers, and he rushes out of their stateroom, telling them to gather in the boat deck. In the corridor outside the stewards are being so polite and obsequious, they are conveying no sense of danger whatsoever. However, it's another story.

"We've struck ice," says Sherlock finally, looking up at Mycroft's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for being so horrible to John! I seriously hate myself.
> 
> Anna Daniels is a fictional character created for my own purposes. She is an actress and a linguist here. Seeing that John had tickets under a Swedish name, Mycroft used her to drive a wedge between them and then pay her off. And I'm telling you, this is going to help save John ;)
> 
> Dear Google Translate,
> 
> I don't know if the translations from English to Swedish are correct. But I love you anyway.
> 
> Yours Truly,  
> S_IRIS


	15. The Beginning Of The End

In her dream, Cora is riding a unicorn, one she has read about only in books and fairy tales. It's pure white, majestic and its body glows brilliantly. It tosses its head back, it's beautiful golden curls bouncing up and down as she rides through the land of Tír na nÓg, seated on its back, dressed like a princess. She rides through the rainbow and the waterfall. The clouds are just there, she always manages to wake up when she's about to approach the clouds, because of something or the other, or just because she feels Lucy, her doll, calling to her. But today, she's there, just there, fingertips away from the clouds. . .

Bang! The door is thrown open and the lights snapped on by a steward. The Cartmell family rouses from a sound sleep and Cora awakens from her dream at once, startled by the sudden noise.

"Everybody up! Let's go!" says the steward, dumping the lifebelts on the floor, "Put your lifebelts on!"

She rubs her eyes and tries to keep them open against the glare of the sudden light, and then peeps down at her papa, stirring from sleep, "What's he on about?" says he.

She looks miserable. Her dream was left incomplete as always.

In the corridor outside, stewards are going from door to door along the hall, pouncing and yelling rudely at everyone, only one dialogue, "Lifebelts on. Lifebelts on. Everybody up, come on. Lifebelts on. . ."

People come out of the doors behind the steward, perplexed. One of the stewards push past a woman, who asks her husband what was being said. He shrugs, not knowing English at all.

* * *

In the Wireless room, Captain Smith enters wordlessly as Bride and Philips manage a clumsy imitation of a salute, rising from their chair. They've finished with most of the lot of the telegrams. Smith doesn't respond; he simply draws a chit out of his breast pocket and hands it to Phillips, "These are our coordinates," says he, not managing to look him in the eye as Philips looks incredulously at him, "Send the CQD to any ship nearby—"

"CQD, sir?" says he, looking shocked, as if he has never heard of it before.

Smith clears his throat, brows furrowing slightly, "That's right," he takes his cap off and looks away at the door, subconsciously wanting to get away. At this point, he imagines everyone hailing him as responsible for the ship's fate as he feels Bride's eyes on him, "CQD. The distress call. Tell whoever responds that we're. . . going down by the head," Philips looks at the man as if he's out of his mind, "and need immediate assistance."

Smith's eyes roam around the whole cabin, taking in every detail of the machinery for the last time as he puts the cap back on and leaves just as silently as he came. Bride stares after him in disbelief.

"Blimey," is all Philips can manage.

"Maybe you ought to try that new distress call. . . S.O.S." says Bride grinning, not really believing that this mighty ship could go down, "It may be our only chance to use it."

Phillips laughs, in spite of himself, "Yeah, right. It's not that new, ships use it all the time."

"Come on! It's easier!"

Ignoring him, Philips keys the CQD, transmitting the distress signals to ships all around.

* * *

Steam is venting from pipes on the funnels overhead, and the din is horrendous as the crew work with the lifeboats and the falls, mishandling them. Speech is adding difficulty to the crew's level of disorganization.

"Keep lowering!" Lightoller, standing over in the port side, yells over the deafening noise. There's Chief Officer Wilde a couple of metres away, conversing with Captain Smith while supervising the men at work.

"Steady!" his voice booms out as he sees the davits being handled improperly, "Make it taut! And winch out!"

"Uncover this boat! Uncover this boat aft!"

Andrews hurries along the boat deck, leaping up a gate to the deck, having checked the starboard side, as seamen and officers scurry to uncover the boats. Andrews sees some men fumbling with the mechanism of one of the davits and yells to them over the roar of steam.

"Turn to the right! Pull the falls taut before you unfasten. Have you never had a boat drill?"

"No sir!" one of the seamen yells back, "Not with these new davits, sir."

He looks at them, disgusted as the crew fumble with the davits and the tackle for the falls, and he remembers about the boat drills. He suddenly notices that there are no passengers. He looks around in amazement. The deck is empty except for the crew fumbling with the davits. He yells over the roar of the steam to Wilde.

"Mr. Wilde, where are all the passengers?"

"They've all gone back inside," says he, brandishing his whistle and bringing it near his mouth, "Too damn cold and noisy for them," he looks up to see one of the seamen fumbling with the Collapsibles, "You there!" his shrill whistle rings out, "Are ya out of your mind? Get down here, and get these davits cleared up first!"

Andrews feels like he is in a bad dream. He looks at his pocket watch and hurries to the foyer entrance.

* * *

A large number of First Class passengers have gathered near the staircase. They are getting indignant about the confusion. In the First Class Lounge, passengers are sipping brandy to protect themselves from the cold. Many have got their luggage with them. The jumpy piano rhythm of "Alexander's Ragtime Band" plays as Bandmaster Wallace Hartley has assembled some of his men on Captain's orders, to allay the panic. They're the only ones without lifebelts, apart from some other men and waiters.

Thomas Andrews walks past them like a ghost, unnoticed and unrecognised. His eyes scan the whole place, the most elegant and magnificent room of the ship, which he knows is doomed. He feels his heart snapping into two pieces to even think that all of it would be underwater in an hour. He remembers all nights of how he had diligently worked upon her design, striving for perfection in every aspect. The black notebook with all his notes on how to improve upon the ship's plans feels heavy in his pocket. All hope, will and spirit leave him, and there just seems to be no reason to even try. It's over for him.

And then his eyes fall on the band playing nearby. They were still trying for the best. Not that it could make much of a difference, but people are actually listening to them, applauding and requesting for other songs. The band complies cheerfully, seeing as they have proper listeners for the first time.

Andrews takes a deep breath. If they could try, why not he? He could do more. Just for once, he thinks, just one small tour of the Grand Staircase and he would go, save as many lives as possible.

Near the Grand Staircase, Mycroft, Andrea and Sherlock gather with Molly Brown and the Countess and her brother-in-law. Mrs. Hudson carries two lifebelts along in her hands. They have the good sense not to carry their luggage with them. The women look admirably strong, while Mycroft takes one of the lifebelts from her and hands it to Sherlock, who is pretty much sleepwalking.

"There's a reason that steward came and told us to put the lifebelt on, Sherlock. You told me yourself, we've struck ice. . ."

But Sherlock's eyes find Mr. Andrews on the Grand Staircase, as if he's the only one who can see him and recognise the heartbroken expression on his face. He quickly rushes over to the Beta, "Mr. Andrews!"

He turns at once and looks into his eyes, feeling burnt with guilt, shame and fear when someone actually manages to recognise him. Till now, he hasn't had a problem because he didn't have to face anyone.

"I saw the berg, Mr. Andrews," says Sherlock, using gentler words than usual, "How much time?"

He swallows, and takes him to a side, whispering so that no one can hear. Mycroft closes upon them, keeping a keen ear, "The ship will sink."

The furrows between Sherlock's eyebrows disappear, as Mycroft turns to one of the stewards, accepting a glass of brandy from him, "How much time?"

"In an hour or so. . ." he looks around, getting a final glimpse, "all this. . . will be at the bottom of the Atlantic. Please tell only who you must, I don't want to be responsible for a panic. And get to a boat quickly, both of you. Don't wait. You. . . remember what I told you about the boats, don't you?"

Mrs. Hudson is thankfully at a distance from them, chattering away with poor Andrea, who listens to her with a polite smile stretching across her cheeks.

Sherlock nods briefly, "I do." His mind goes to John instantly, the Bond making him want to push everyone away and run to him, to save his mate. Mycroft sees his face, and his expression hardens as he realises what his brother is thinking, "Sherlock, help Mrs. Hudson here, will you? Andrea and I have some important things to discuss."

And before Sherlock can say anything, he's entrusted with the task of comforting her. He wonders where John is now, or what was happening to him. He tries not to care. He looks around at the frightened masses, and at Mrs. Hudson, who thankfully doesn't remind him of the evening.

* * *

"Over here, son."

"Why won't you let me go?" John tries wriggling out of the master-at-arms' grip, "That man touched him!"

Gregson and the Master-at-Arms are handcuffing a still swearing John to a water pipe as a crewman rushes in anxiously and almost blurts to the Master at Arms—

"You're wanted by the Purser, sir. Urgently. They've got a sort of a big mob 'round there."

"I'll keep an eye on him," says Gregson, drawing out a pistol and smiling triumphantly, happy at having caught him in the end.

Gregson pulls the pearl handled colt from under his coat. The Master at Arms nods and tosses the handcuff key to Gregson, then exits with the crewman. Gregson flips the key in the air and catches it. John looks away, his mind automatically travelling back to Sherlock, as if he can reach out to him.

* * *

"Sir!"

In the enclosed wheelhouse, Bride catches up with Smith as he hands him the message from Carpathia. It's ten minutes past twelve.

"Carpathia says they're making 17 knots," says he, handing him a slip of paper, "full steam for them, sir."

He reads the coordinates for some time, "And she's the only one who's responding?"

"The only one close, sir. She says they can be here in four hours—"

Smith turns to him instinctively, "Four hours?!" The enormity of it hits him like a sledgehammer blow, while Bride looks spooked at the sudden exclamation. He forces a polite smile at the young wireless operator, seeing as he has done whatever he could've done.

"I—I'll. . . we'll send out. . . more calls, sir. . ."

"Thank you, Bride. Relieve yourself and Mr. Philips from duty within half-an-hour."

"Yes, sir," says Bride, rushing away as quickly as possible.

Smith feels literally useless, standing there, his knee hurting him, his head aching from the tension and the lack of sleep, as he watches the young men at work. He had one job in the ship, and he couldn't do it properly. He ignored the iceberg warnings, despite Mr. Andrews' and his own officers' persistent requests to stop for the night. He looks around, wanting to help, but old age certainly has its cons. Lightoller has his boats swung out. He is standing amidst a crowd of uncertain passengers in all states of dress and undress. One first class woman is barefoot. Others are in stockings. The maitre of the restaurant is in top hat and overcoat. Others are still in evening dress, while some are in bathrobes and kimonos. Women are wearing lifebelts over their velvet gowns, dressed to kill even in the final moments. Some have brought jewels, others books, even small dogs.

Lightoller sees Smith walking stiffly toward him and quickly goes to him, with Murdoch joining him from the starboard side. He yells into the Captain's ear, through cupped hands, over the roar of the steam. . .

"Hadn't we better get the Omegas, the women and children into the boats, sir?"

Smith just nods, a bit abstractly. The fire has gone out of him. Lightoller extends his ear, thinking that he can't hear him. Smith looks almost pained. The ship's officers are still looking up to him for guidance and advice.

"Sir?"

"Women, Omegas and children, yes."

"Yes sir," says Lightoller, withdrawing from him upon seeing the uncertainty, as if almost declaring him as senile and useless, "Right! Start the loading. Omegas, women and children ONLY!" Wilde stares at his captain for a few bewildered moments, before rushing away to help Lightoller organize the boats. Murdoch hurries away too, yelling to Fifth Officer Lowe, "Omegas, women and children FIRST!"

The appalling din of escaping steam abruptly cuts off, leaving a sudden unearthly silence in which Lightoller's voice echoes.

Wallace Hartley raises his violin to play, "Wedding Dance. Ready and—"

The band has reassembled just outside the First Class Entrance, port side, near where Lightoller is calling for the boats to be loaded. They strike up the waltz, lively and elegant. The music wafts all over the ship. He waves his arms frantically at the scared passengers, "Step this way, please. That's right. Come towards me!"

Couples and families hold on to each other as they walk hesitantly towards Lightoller, "Good. For the time being, I shall require only Omegas, women and children. Step into the boat now."

No one budges, not letting go of their husbands' hands. Finally one woman steps across the gap, into the boat, terrified of the drop to the water far below.

"You watch," says one of the Omegas in the group, "They'll put us off in these silly little boats to freeze, and we'll all be back on board by breakfast!"

Lightoller heaves a frustrated breath, "Christ!" and lifts him by the waist, almost dumping him into the boat, causing his Alpha to clench his jaw muscles threateningly, but Lightoller sends him a death glare, "Right then, anyone else fancy a ride?"

Slowly, the women and the Omegas let go of their husband's hands, and step into the boat daintily. When there's no other person eligible to sit in the boat, he turns to the seamen, who're ready by the falls, "And lower away! Left and right together!"

"Wait!" One of the Alphas shout, "It's half full. We Alphas could get on—"

"Only Omegas, women and children, damn you!"

The Alpha shrinks away, taking a last look at the frightened face of his Omega, "I'll get there, darling. You wrap yourself up."

* * *

It's almost twelve forty. Officer Murdoch, with the help of Officers Lowe and Pitman, and also Ismay, loads the passengers into Boat 5. The whole thing is so formal that it is difficult for anyone to realise that it is a tragedy. Men and women are standing in little groups and talking as if nothing has happened. Some laugh as the boats go over the side. The men are up on deck, tucking in the women and smiling. It all seems like a play, like a dream that is being executed for entertainment. It does not seem real. Men say 'After you' as they make some woman or an Omega comfortable and step back. Murdoch only shakes his head at their stupidity. He knows, after all. He has seen the iceberg, and felt the shudder as it scraped along the side of the ship.

"We are safer on board the ship than in that little boat," remarks Astor when someone among the crowd of watching passengers shouts, "Put the brides and grooms in first!"

Ismay tries to orders Third Officer Pitman, but the latter retorts, "I await the  _Captain's_  orders."

At the stairwell rail on the bridge wing, Fourth Officer Boxhall and Q Rowe light the first distress rocket. It shoots into the sky and explodes with a thunderclap over the ship, sending out white starbursts which light up the entire deck as they fall.

The Managing Director of White Star Line is cracking. Already at the breaking point from his immense guilt, the rocket panics him. He starts shouting at the officers struggling with the falls of Boat 5.

"There is no time to waste, you blithering idiot!" he shouts at the baby-faced Fifth Officer Lowe, showing off his Alpha dominance, yelling and waving his arms, "Lower away! Lower away! Lower away!"

"Get out of the way, you fool!" He snaps at Ismay as he looks up from the tangled falls at the madman.

Ismay towers over him, "Do you know who I am?"

Lowe, not having a clue nor caring, squares up to Ismay, "You're a passenger. And I'm this sinking ship's bloody officer. Now do what you're told!" he turns away, "Steady, men! Stand by the falls! Get on Herb, you're in charge! And you, Alfie!"

Ismay backs away numbly, "Yes, quite right. Sorry."

Lowe heaves a sigh of relief, "Thank you."

Herbert Pitman gets into the boat, along with Q Alfred Oliver, "Right then. Goodnight, Will," he nods to Murdoch, and then to Lowe, "And you, Harold. Good luck to you two."

They nod their heads in goodbye, "Alright men, lower away!"

The boat's progress down the side of the ship is slow and difficult. The pulleys are still covered in fresh paint and the lowering ropes were stiff, causing them to stick repeatedly as the boat is lowered in jerks towards the water. Those watching the boat being lowered feel overwhelmed with doubts that they might be subjecting their families to greater danger aboard the boat than if they had remained on Titanic.

"Wait for me!" Lowe and Murdoch look behind to see an overweight Alpha coming to stop right at the edge. He spots the drop, swallows just as Murdoch realises what he is going to do.

"No, sir! The next lifeboat—!" He pulls him back by the jacket, but the man shrugs out of it in an instant, and jumps into the boat, knocking one of the women passengers unconscious with the impact.

"Hold it!" Lowe shouts, as Pitman helps him up, and checks on the woman. Murdoch simply sighs, wondering what sort of sins he is paying for.

* * *

It is chaos in the E Deck, with stewards pushing their way through narrow corridors clogged with people carrying suitcases, duffel bags, children. Some have lifebelts on, others don't.

"I told the stupid sods no luggage," says one of the stewards to another, "Aw, bloody hell!" He throws up his hand at the sight of a family, loaded down with cases and bags, completely blocking the corridor.

Greg and Mike push past the stewards, going the other way. They reach a huge crowd gathered at the bottom of the main Third Class stairwell. Greg finally manages to spot Molly with the rest of the Hooper family, standing patiently with suitcases in hand. He reaches her and she grins, clinging to him, as he kisses her forehead.

Mike pushes to where he can see what's holding up the group. There is a steel collapsible gate across the top of the stairs, with several stewards and seamen on the other side of it.

"Stay calm, please," they say, "It's not time to go up to the boats yet."

"Oh, so when you finish putting First Class people in the boats, you'll be startin' with us, huh? Sod this!"

"Go get help," says the steward frantically to one of the seamen.

* * *

On the starboard side, Murdoch is allowing Alphas onto the lifeboats after all the Omegas, the women and the children in the vicinity have been settled into the boats. It's almost quarter to one. Boat 7 is less than half full, with 28 aboard a boat made for 65.

"Get in the boat!" he shouts at the nearby passengers, and then continues a little gently, "Please sir, it's less than half full!"

"No, thank you, gentlemen," says the man, wrapping his coat around him, "We prefer the warm interior of the ship. Once the boats reach the water they shall pick up passengers from doors in the ship's side."

Murdoch rolls his eyes, "Lower away, left and right together! Steady!"

The boat lurches as the falls start to pay out through the pulley blocks. The women gasp and some of the children start sobbing. The boat descends, swaying and jerking, toward the water 60 feet below. The passengers are terrified.

"Steady! Hold it, lads! Go slowly!"

* * *

On the port side, Lightoller is filling Boat 6. Mycroft, Sherlock and Andrea are waiting.

"Women, Omegas and children only!"

Mycroft takes a deep breath, as Andrea turns to look at him, ever the faithful one, "I won't go without you, sir," but Mycroft simply shakes his head, "Go and find a seat with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, dear. I'll manage with some brandy for myself. Helps fight the cold."

Saying this he leans in, stroking her cheek and plants a soft kiss on her lips, "Go." Sherlock looks gobsmacked at the sight of his brother kissing. Mycroft's eyes narrow, and then he looks almost amused as he sees his brother looking utterly disgusted at the thought of another person wanting to bring their lips to those of Mycroft. Sherlock looks away at Molly Brown getting on the boat.

Another rocket bursts overhead, lighting the crowd. Startled faces turn upward. Fear now in the eyes. Daniel Marvin still has his Biograph camera set up, cranking away. . . hoping to get an exposure off the rocket's light. He has Mary posed in front of the scene at the boats.

"You're afraid, darling," he says, looking into his camera, "Scared to death. That's it!"

Either she suddenly learned to act or she really is petrified.

Sherlock watches the farewells taking place right in front of him as they step closer to the boat. Husbands saying goodbye to their wives or Omegas and children. Lovers and friends part. Nearby, Molly Brown is getting a reluctant woman to board the boat, "Come on, you heard the man. Get in the boat, sister."

Sherlock feels his hand twitch uncontrollably, his Bond wanting to pull him back to John.

Molly helps Andrea get into the boat, who then extends her arm to Sherlock. Mycroft takes his arm, and helps him into the boat. Sherlock extends one leg forward, seeing the drop under him.

"Don't look down, Sherlock," says Molly, "Just come up here."

"Get back, sir!" Wilde comes, and pulls Mycroft away from him, and tries to shove Sherlock into the lifeboat. As Sherlock sees the water shining brightly due to the reflection from the ship's lights, he remembers just another night, where he had been leaning over water, waiting to die.

You jump, I jump.

He pushes Wilde away, and before Mycroft's slow reflexes can understand what happened, Sherlock is running through the crowd like a lunatic, pushing people away. Another rocket bursts overhead, bathing his face in dazzling white glow like a light from the Heavens. John would never do that to him. He'll work the problem out later. Right now, it doesn't matter.

"NO! Sherlock!" His brother yells, wanting to go after him, but Andrea stops him before they can lower the boat, "Let him go. He'll find his own way."

"Andrea—!"

"Get AWAY, sir!" And Mycroft is pushed away again. He looks at the distance vacantly. Sherlock is gone.

"Get a boat, sir," says she, a victim of old habits, while trying to make her stubborn boss/lover see some sense.

"And lower away!" The boat lurches downward as the falls are paid out.

"He's an Omega," she says as the boat lowers away and Mycroft takes his presumably last glimpse at her lovely face, "he'll get in anytime."

Sherlock runs through the clusters of people coming out. He remembers the tour, he remembers exactly where he has to go, somewhere in E Deck, the Master-at-Arms' cabin. . . He's got to go back to him. Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. John doing that to him was impossible.

He has got to find John.


	16. Compliments of Mr. Victor Trevor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, 6.3K words. Murdoch is not taking bribes here. I always disliked the way Mr. Cameron tarnished his heroic reputation.

John peers out at the porthole, looking apprehensively at the water rising up the glass. Inside the Master-at-Arms' office, he stands, chained to the water pipe, next to the porthole. Gregson sits on the edge of a desk. He puts a .45 bullet on the desk and watches it roll across and fall off in the direction of the ship's descent. He picks up the bullet and smiles cunningly at John, and then loads his pistol with it. John's lips twitch. He knows what's coming next, and he straightens up as Gregson approaches him.

"You know, " says he, as he crosses over to him, "I believe this ship may sink."

John gives him a short laugh, and then feigns shock, "Really? Took you long enough."

"I've been asked to give you this small token of our appreciation..." and he punches John hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. John reels, his face twisting in pain. Gregson flips the silver handcuff key in the air, catches it and puts it in his pocket and exits. John is left gasping, handcuffed to the pipe.

"Compliments of Mr. Victor Trevor."

* * *

On the port side, Lightoller is struggling with Boat 8. People are running about, bringing women from all places when they see that the boats are being launched half-full.

Nearby, ex-Congressman Isidor and Ida Strauss are standing, holding hands.

"Please, Ida, get into the boat."

"No!" she looks up at him, "We've been together for forty years, and where you go, I go. Don't argue with me, dear, you know how horrible you are at fighting with words."

He looks at his wife with great sadness and love, "In case you've forgotten, I was a Congressman."

"Ma'am," Lightoller extends his hand to her, as her grip onto her husband tightens, "get into the boat, please."

She looks at the Countess and her sister-in-law being helped aboard by one of the gentlemen, and seaman Jones. She watches a young woman being wrapped with blankets and tucked into the boat as carefully as if she were going on a motor ride. There are still younger people left to board. She looks up at her husband resolutely, and then to Lightoller, "I will not be separated from my husband," she declares solemnly, "As we have lived, so will we die... together."

Lightoller swallows. This has become a frequent problem, but he isn't going to simply pick the old lady up and dump her into the boat. He addresses Isidor Strauss, in the hope that they both might get into the boat, "Sir-?"

"No thank you, sir. I do not wish any distinction in my favour which is not granted to others."

She nods, tears in her eyes, whether or not of joy, she doesn't know, "Till death do us part."

Beside them, one of the men calls out cheerfully to the young woman he has just settled into the boat, "Don't forget to remember me to the folks back home."

"Left and right together!" Lightoller calls out, "Steady! And lower away!"

* * *

On the Starboard side, Sir and Lady Duff-Gordon watch as Boat 3 is being lowered. As the Boat 1 is prepared for launch, Sir Duff-Gordon approaches Murdoch, "May we, sir?"

Murdoch looks at them, and seeing that the boat is almost empty, he lets them on. While the seamen detach the falls, Boat 1 rocks next to the hull. Lucille and Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon sit with ten others in a boat made for four times that many.

"If they are sending the boats away," remarks someone nearby, "they might as well put some people in them."

"I despise small boats. I just know I'm going to be seasick," she squeals, "I always get seasick in small boats... Good Heavens, there's a man down there!"

In a lit porthole beneath the surface, she sees John looking up at her... a face in a bubble of light under the water. She fails to recognise him.

"Oh dear, says Sir Duff-Gordon, "There's your beautiful night-dress gone."

The rest of the stokers, who have been brought aboard so that they can pick people fallen from the ship into the sea, shake their heads.

"The crew lost all their kit, mistah," says one of them, glaring at the narcissistic couple, "and the pay stopped from the minute of sinkin'."

Sir Cosmo, seemingly irritated, retorts while taking out his chequebook, "Very well, I will give you a fiver each to start a new kit!" He writes all the seven crewmen aboard a cheque for £5 each. They pocket it, while staring with distaste at the repulsive couple.

* * *

John pulls at the pipe with all his strength. He tries to pull one hand out of the cuffs, working until the skin is raw... no good. He tries to pick the locks like he had once watched Sherlock do it. He cannot.

"Oh Jesus!"

He bangs the cuffs on the metallic pipe, hoping the sound would carry, if not his voice, " Help!! Somebody!! Can anybody hear me?!"

In the corridor, the margin of the water starts creeping, like some sort of silent monster which is slowly taking the ship in its grasp. At this point, it's the only thing that can hear John.

* * *

On the port side, Gregson joins Victor, who has just come onto the boat deck. He is still looking for Sherlock. Gregson points at Mycroft, who is trying his best to help unwilling women get onto the boats.

"Please ma'am, you don't understand," they hear him say politely, "The more the women go into these boats, more room will be left for us and your husbands."

"Will you hold the boat a moment? I have to run back to my room for something-"

He loses it and grabs her, shoving her bodily into the boat. Lightoller grins at him, despite himself, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

Thomas Andrews rushes up to him just then, "Mr. Lightoller, why are the boats being launched half full?!"

Lightoller steps past him, helping a seaman clear a snarled fall, "Not now, Mr. Andrews."

"There, look... twenty or so in a boat built for sixty five. And I saw one boat with only twelve. Twelve!"

"Well... we were not sure of the weight--"

"Rubbish! They were tested in Belfast with the weight of 70 men. Now fill these boats, Mr. Lightoller. For God's sake, man!"

Meanwhile, Victor walks up to Mycroft, lighting a cigarette complacently, "Social service, Mycroft? And just when I thought I had you figured out."

Mycroft heaves an exaggerated breath, "Would you like me to do one by hitting you once more?"

Victor chuckles, blowing the smoke artfully into the cold air, "Touché. You're quite like Sherlock, I have always noted. Hot-headed, impulsive... by the way, where is he?"

"What do you mean?" says he, trying to look busy, "He got on a lifeboat, of course."

Victor's eyes narrow, "Did he now? I suppose I should get myself one too, then."

Mycroft appears nonchalant, "Suit yourself," and then turns to another woman, helping her onboard. As soon as Mycroft is out of earshot, he asks Gregson, "Have you checked everywhere?"

"He's not on the starboard side either. You think he's still on the ship?"

"Of course," he smirks at his valet, "These two may look like they'd kill each other in a day, but Sherlock isn't going anywhere without his brother, I tell you. We're running out of time. And this strutting martinet," he indicates to Lightoller, "isn't letting any Alphas in at all."

"The one on the other side is letting Alphas in," he informs him.

"Then that's our play. But we're still going to need some insurance."

* * *

Sherlock spots the crew passage and slogs down the flooded corridor. The place is understandably deserted. He is on his own. He turns into a cross-corridor, splashing down the hall. There's a row of doors on each side.

"Johnnnn!" He yells, "John, can you hear me?"

He splashes down the hall to a stairwell going down to E deck. It's almost submerged in water. He swallows before lowering himself, gasping at the icy feeling of the water, burning through him like a thousand white hot knives. He remembers John's words on that. He was right. His long coat leaves a trail like a giant snail and the weight of it is really slowing him down. He rips at the buttons and shimmies quickly out of it. He bounds up the stairs to find himself in a long corridor... part of the labyrinth of steerage hallways forward.

He is alone here. A long groan of stressing metal echoes along the hall as the ship continues to settle. He struggles through the waist deep water, gasping and shivering with the cold water attacking his bare skin.

"JOHN?!"

He turns a corner and runs along another corridor in a daze. The hall slopes down into water which shimmers, reflecting the light. A young steward appears, half-running, half-swimming through the water, sending up geysers of spray. He pelts past Sherlock without slowing, his eyes crazed. Sherlock feels the absence of control again. He has been to the Master-at-Arms' cabin before, for the Jennifer Wilson's case, but he just can't remember it now. Everything looks similar. He stops there for a moment, and looks around, trying to organise his thoughts but the freezing water isn't helping. All he knows is that he is in E Deck, in the aft part of the ship. There's no time to think; he struggles through the waist deep water, towards the steward.

"Excuse me!"

But the steward is gone. Leaving him completely alone. It is like a bad dream. The hull gongs with terrifying sounds. There are electric sparks somewhere at a distance as the live lines short-circuit. Sherlock holds his breath and swims away from there. The lights flicker and go out, plunging him into utter darkness. He closes his eyes, and rushes forward carefully, not wanting to cut himself on any jagged edges.

"JOHN!" He yells, half out of terror, "Don't play jokes with me, I know you're there!" It's all he can do to cheer himself up half-heartedly. There's still no response. It's black all around.

Then the lights come back on. He finds himself hyperventilating. That one moment of blackness was frankly terrifying.

"JOHN?!"

"Sherlock?!"

Like the lights, he hears John's voice behind him.

"Sherlock!" There's a sound of metal striking metal, "Sherlock, in here!"

Sherlock spins and runs back, locating the right door, then pushes it open, creating a small wave. There's John, handcuffed to a water pipe, standing on a desk. His face is unreadable from so many different sentiments on his face.

"John! John, oh Lord!" He struggles to him, as John beams at him. They are so happy to see each other it's embarrassing. Sherlock kisses him, and puts his arms around his neck, feeling their Bond strengthen once again, "I'm sorry for... I'm sorry I-"

"It wasn't me, Sherlock," John still pleads, "The wedding band, that valet guy put it in my pocket. I don't know who that woman is, please-!"

"I know!" He gives him a brief kiss and pulls apart, instantly setting to work on the handcuffs upon seeing that there's no time to find a key. John waits patiently as Sherlock works the locks open, his shaking hands not helping him at all. He takes a deep breath and sets to work again.

"So," John starts, trying to sound conversational, "How did you deduce it that I didn't... you know?"

Sherlock doesn't reply, as if he's ashamed that John expected him to work it out when he hasn't worked it out yet, "I-"

Suddenly, it strikes John, "Sherlock, what the hell are you still doing here?"

Sherlock leaves his lock picking at looks up at him incredulously, to which John only replies, "Keep working, talk while you work."

"What do you mean 'why I'm here'? You won't stand a chance, those boats, they're allowing only the Omegas, the women and the children at the moment!"

With a deft click, the handcuffs come away and Sherlock grins at him, but John only kisses him, taking his face in his palms, "You're a big, stubborn, foolish git, you know that?"

Sherlock simply rolls his eyes, but he blushes slightly, "We can do this when we get a lifeboat. Come on, John!"

John jumps down the desk and gasps at the freezing water, "That's so cold!"

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious," says he absentmindedly, coming out of the cabin. Their way out is blocked completely by water gushing in from the stairwell.

"That way, John!" says he, taking his hand and struggling towards the opposite direction, "Come on!" They struggle through the crew passage, through the incoming torrents of water. Many-a-times, the ship's lights go off and come back.

"Why's that happening, Sherlock?" John gasps, trying to avoid the snapped power lines.

"Circuit's going apart," says he, exhausted by the exertions of pulling himself throughout the water, "The water's reached the main power room." They come to a dead end, with a door in the side, but locked.

"One second," says Sherlock, taking a deep breath and going underwater. He fumbles with the lock, trying to pick it. His hands are shaking and he returns to the surface to see John's bemused face, "I'll open it-"

But John doesn't wait. He goes back several steps and throws his entire weight on the door. The wooden doorframe splinters and the door bursts open under the force of John's shoulder. John and Sherlock stumble through, into the corridor with water following them. Some people scream upon seeing the water gushing through.

Sherlock manages a chuckle, as he helps John up, "That works too."

"Can't wait for your lock-picking, can I?"

Right now, steerage passengers move along it like refugees, heading aft. A steward, who was nearby herding people along, marches over, "Here you! You'll have to pay for that, you know. That's White Star Line property-"

"SHUT UP!" the two of manage before promptly rushing away to the upper floors. John leads him past the dumbfounded steward. They join the steerage stragglers going aft. In places the corridor is almost completely blocked by large families carrying all their luggage. John rubs Sherlock's arms and tries to warm him up as they walk along. As they look around, one of the men passing by offers them a flask of whiskey, taking a look at Sherlock, who's almost blue-lipped with cold.

"This'll take the chill off."

Sherlock takes a mighty belt and hands it to John. He grins and follows suit. John tries a number of doors and iron gates along the way, finding them all locked. Finally he spots Greg, standing with Molly Hooper and her family, near a stairwell secured by a collapsible gate.

"Greg!" John yells, and they hurry in their direction, "Greg!"

"John! The boats are all going!"

"We gotta get up there or we're gonna be gargling saltwater. Where's Mike?"

Greg points over the heads of the solidly packed crowd to the stairwell. Mike has his hands on the bars of the steel gate which blocks the head of the stairwell. The crew open the gate a foot or so and a few women are squeezing through.

"Jesus, Mike! MIKE!"

"Women only," the steward yell at them, "No men. No men!!!"

But some terrified men, not understanding English, try to rush through the gap, forcing the gate open. The crewmen and stewards push them back, shoving and punching them. One of them brandishes a mini revolver, pointing at the crowd, "Get back! Get back you lot!"

They struggle to get the gate closed again. One of the stewards holds a fire axe. They lock the gate, and a cry goes up among the crowd, who surge forward, pounding against the steel and shouting in several languages.

"MIKE!" John shouts, but he can't hear him, "Mike, come here!"

"For the love of God, man," says Mike, shaking the gates, "there are kiddies down here! Let us up, so we can have a chance!"

But the crewmen are scared now. They have let the situation get out of hand, and now they have a mob. Mike gives up and pushes his way back through the crowd, going down the stairs. He rejoins John, Sherlock and Greg.

"It's hopeless that way," he shakes his head.

"Well, whatever we're going to do," says Sherlock, "we better do it fast. The sinking rate has increased."

Greg turns to Molly, taking her hands gently in his, "Molly, everyone... all of you... come with me now. We'll go to the boats. We'll go to the boats. Alright? Come now!"

But before Molly can say anything, her father, the patriarch of the family shakes his head. They can see his urgency, but he will not panic, and will not let his family go with this boy. Greg turns to Molly again.

"Molly, my love, ... please... come with me, I am lucky. We'll get to America..."

But she simply silences him by a brief kiss on his lips, then steps back to be with her family, saying goodbye. John lays a hand on his shoulder, his eyes saying "Let's go". Greg looks at her sadly.

"I will never forget you."

He turns to John and Sherlock, who lead the way out of the crowd. Looking back, Greg sees her face disappear into the crowd.

* * *

Boat 6 silently wades away from the doomed ship. The hull of Titanic looms over it like a cliff. Its enormous mass is suddenly threatening to those in the tiny boat, even though they've made it a hundred feet or so. Enough to see that the ship is angled down into the water, with the bow rail less than ten feet above the surface. Q Hitchins, at the tiller, wants nothing but to get away from the ship. Unfortunately his two seamen can't row properly. Fleet tries to do his best, but he cannot, given he has never had a boat drill. They flail like a duck with a broken wing.

"Keep pulling... away from the ship," says he, "Pull."

"Ain't you boys ever rowed before?" says Molly Brown impatiently, "Here, gimme those oars. I'll show ya how it's done."

She climbs over Andrea to get at the oars, while Andrea looks back at the Titanic, transfixed by the sight of the dying liner. The bowsprit is now barely above the waterline. Another of Boxhall's rockets explodes overhead. It lights up the whole area, with white light. She's still watching the liner, her eyes fixed on the part of the ship from where they had launched, thinking that Mycroft is still there. She doesn't cry.

"Come on girls, join in," says Molly, giving an oar to Andrea, "it'll keep ya warm. Let's go, sister. Grab an oar!"

Andrea just stares at the spectacle of the great liner, its rows of lights blazing, slanting down into the sullen black mirror of the Atlantic. She looks down at the oar, as if it were a culprit taking her away from Mycroft. She pulls her shawl closer to her, and takes it from Molly, working it, rowing away from the ship.

* * *

John, Sherlock, Greg and Mike are lost, searching for a way out. They push past confused passengers... past a mother changing her baby's diaper on top of an upturned steamer trunk... past a woman arguing heatedly with a man in some foreign language, a wailing child next to them... past a man kneeling to console a woman who is just sitting on the floor, sobbing... and past another man with an English/Italian dictionary, trying to figure out what the signs mean, while his wife and children wait patiently.

They come upon a narrow stairwell and they go up two decks before they are stopped by a small group pressed up against a steel gate. The steerage men are yelling at a scared steward.

"Go to the main stairwell, with everyone else. It'll all get sorted out there."

"John, help me here!" John turns to look at Sherlock, who's pointing at a bench.

"Right," he looks at him in bewilderment, wondering since when Sherlock began resorting to brute force. The latter merely smiles sheepishly, "Learnt it from you."

John grins as Sherlock grabs one end of a bench bolted to the floor on the landing. He starts pulling on it, and the rest pitch in until the bolts shear and it breaks free. Mike figures out what they are doing and clears a path up the stairs between the waiting people.

"Move aside! Quickly, move aside!"

John and Sherlock run up the steps with the bench and ram it into the gate with all their strength. It rips loose from its track and falls outward, narrowly missing the steward. Led by John, the crowd surges though. Sherlock steps up to the cowering steward and says in his most imperious tone, "If you have any intention of keeping your pathetic job with the White Star Line, I suggest you escort these good people to the boat deck... now."

John can't help but grin at him. Class wins out. The steward nods dumbly, and motions them to follow.

* * *

Andrea rows with Molly Brown, two other women and the incompetent sailors. She rests on her oars, exhausted, and looks back at the ship. Its slanting down into the water, still ablaze with light. Nothing is above water forward of the bridge except for the foremast. Another rocket goes off, lighting up the entire area... there are a dozen boats moving outward from the ship.

At the Boat Deck rail, Lightoller is shouting to Boat 6 through a large metal megaphone, "Come back! Come back to the ship!"

Wilde joins him, blowing his silver whistle, but it sounds like a soft sound across the water. Q Hitchins grips the rudder in fear.

"The suction will pull us right down if we don't keep going," says he, when Andrea says that they should go back.

"We got room for lots more," says Molly Brown, looking around to other women for support, "I say we go back."

"No! It's our lives now, not theirs. And I'm in charge of this boat! Now row!!" He orders them into silence.

* * *

As Victor and Gregson cross the foyer and they encounter Benjamin Guggenheim and his valet, both dressed in white tie, tail-coats and top hats, coming down from their stateroom after he had settled Madame Aubert in a boat. He greets Victor warmly.

"Ben, what's the occasion?" Victor asks him cheerfully, as if he were going to a party.

"We have dressed in our best and are prepared to go down like Alphas."

Victor's eyes narrow, and creases appear between his brows, "That's... admirable, Ben. I'll sure and tell your husband... when I get to New York. And Madame Aubert."

They make their way through the First Class smoking room, dumping two flasks of whiskey and cigars into his coat pocket as they go. There are still two card games in progress. The room is quiet and civilized. A silver serving cart, holding a large humidor, begins to roll slowly across the room. One of the card players takes a cigar from it as it rolls by.

"It seems we've been dealt a bad hand this time."

Victor rolls his eyes. He believes that he always wins, even if he's dealt a bad hand, "Helps keep off cold," he tells Gregson, filling his overcoat pockets with brandy flasks, as if he doesn't already know.

Victor and Gregson walk aft with a purposeful stride. They pass a man dressed in Chef's uniform, who is working up a sweat tossing deck chairs over the rail. After they go by, that man takes a break and pulls a bottle of scotch from a pocket, opening it. He drains it, and tosses it over the side too, then stands there a little unsteadily.

* * *

Panic around the remaining boats aft. The crowd here is now a mix of all three classes. Officers repeatedly warn men back from the boats. The crowd presses in closer. Mycroft is still searching for his brother, but the outgoing crowd do not allow him entry into the ship's interiors.

Seamen brandish the tiller of Boat 14 to discourage a close press of men who look ready to rush the boat. Several men break ranks and rush forward. Lightoller pulls out his revolver and aims it at them.

"Get back! Keep order!"

The men back down. Fifth Officer Lowe standing in the boat, yells to the crew, "Lower away, left and right!"

Lightoller turns away from the crowd and, out of their sight, breaks his pistol open. It's empty. Letting out a long breath, he starts to load it.

* * *

On the starboard side, forward, Victor and Lovejoy arrive in time to see Murdoch lowering his last boat, "We're too late."

In the water below, there is another panic. Boat 13, already in the water but still attached to its falls, is pushed aft by the discharge water being pumped out of the ship. It winds up directly under boat 15, which is coming down right on top of it. The passengers shout in panic to the crew above to stop lowering. They are ignored. Some men put their hands up, trying futilely to keep the 5 tons of boat 15 from crushing them. One of the stokers gets out his knife and leaps to the after falls, climbing rudely over people. He cuts the aft falls while another crewman cuts the forward lines. 13 drifts out from beneath 15 just seconds before it touches the water with a slap. Victor turns away to hear shots being fired.

"We don't have much time," says Gregson, pointing at his breast pocket, cash money overflowing from it.

"Right." He sees Murdoch turn from the davits of boat 15 and start walking toward the bow. He catches up and falls in beside him.

"Mr. Murdoch, I'm a businessman, as you know, and I have a business proposition for you."

* * *

John, Sherlock, Mike and Greg burst out onto the boat deck from the crew stairs just aft of the third funnel. They look at the empty davits.

"The boats are all gone!"

Sherlock sees Colonel Gracie chugging forward along the deck, escorting two first class ladies, "Colonel! Are there any boats left?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes... there are still a couple of boats all the way forward. This way, I'll lead you!"

"Thank you very much," says John, grabbing his hand as they sprint past Gracie, with Greg and Mike close behind, running to the forward side of the ship.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the forward part of the starboard side, Victor is trying to coax Murdoch into accepting his bribe, as  Murdoch and his team are loading Collapsible davits. The crowd is sparse, with most people still aft. Victor slips his hand out of the pocket of his overcoat and into the waist pocket of Murdoch's greatcoat, leaving the stacks of bills there.

"So we have an understanding then?"

Murdoch sees his pockets overflowing with bills, and wonders what sort of a man bribes at such a moment. He looks at him, wanting to be disgusted, but he doesn't have much time. It's 2 in the morning. and the forward part of the ship is mostly underwater. He doesn't care about confronting Victor with the money. He wants to throw it in his face but he has more important things to do than try and make a fool understand that money isn't going to save anyone.

Without a word, he leaves. Victor smirks, thinking that his life is insured now. All that's left is finding Sherlock and forcing him into the boat. Satisfied, he steps back. He finds himself waiting next to Ismay, who isn't meeting his eyes, nor anyone's. Gregson isn't anywhere near.

"Omegas and women and children?" Murdoch calls out, "Any more Omegas and women and children?"

There are none. He glances at Victor, "Anyone else, then?"

Victor looks longingly at his boat... his moment has arrived. But Gregson isn't here. And neither is Sherlock.

"God damn it to hell!" He storms out of there like a demon in tuxedo, leaving behind a bemused Murdoch. Bruce Ismay, seeing his opportunity, steps quickly into Collapsible C. He stares straight ahead, not meeting Murdoch's eyes.

Murdoch sees him in the boat. For a moment, he stares in disbelief, and then his lips curl in a sneer, "Take them down."

* * *

John and Sherlock make it to the middle of the ship. They have already lost Mike and Greg, when another figure crashes into them.

"Mycroft?!"

Mycroft looks awful, completely out of breath, panting and sweating, his tux torn at the shoulders, "Sherlock?" He looks at the small figure of John, "Mr. Watson, Sherlock you've got to get on a boat. They've got the last ones here."

"Port side isn't allowing Alphas on. John needs to get on..."

Sherlock trails off, staring into the distance. He grabs John's hand and almost drags him over to that boat, smiling at his new plan.

"Wait for him!" he shouts, while John tries to keep up with him, wondering what Sherlock has got in his mind. Mycroft tries his best to follow them. They come near the boat, and there's Anna Daniels sitting in it. There's only one more seat left on the boat.

"Hello!" says Sherlock cheerfully, then feigns surprise, "I thought you were pregnant."

She visibly blanches, "Well, I-" She looks up at Mycroft as he arrives, "He'll explain."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Oh, that's right. You aren't pregnant, because you two are newlyweds, aren't you?"

Mycroft, John and Anna stare at him, as if Sherlock's brain was slowly going down with the ship as well, "Sherlock, what're you-?"

"Right," says Wilde, "Anyone else then?"

"Yes," Sherlock yells, making his puppy-dog eyes, "He's a newlywed! That's his wife," he points at Anna, "Please, please let him go!" and before Anna can open her mouth, Sherlock has already turned to Mycroft and produced the wedding band from his pocket which had caused all the trouble, and inserts it into John's ring finger, "Same wedding rings! Newlyweds coming through."

"Sherlock, no!" John clings to him, "I'm not leaving you here." Sherlock's eyes travel over to Wilde, who's surveying them with suspicion.

"Sorry," says Sherlock with a manic grin over his face, a highlight of his tensed nerves, "I'm the best man. He has his concerns," he winks at Wilde, who has no reason to suspect that he's an Omega, given that Sherlock's Estrus had got over.

He turns to John, his uncertain face. He wants to kiss him goodbye, but he knows he can't, not in front of everyone, "John, go! I'm an Omega, for God's sake. I've got my own boat to catch, right Mycroft?"

Mycroft, who has been in a trance following his brother's heartfelt exchange with his Alpha, simply nods mutely, "I'll be safe, John. Go with her."

Near them, a woman with two young daughters looks into the eyes of her husband she knows she may not see again.

"Goodbye for a little while... only for a little while."

The woman stumbles to the boat with the children, hiding her tears from them. Beneath the false good cheer, the man is choked with emotion, "Hold mummy's hand and be a good girl. That's right."

Some of the women are stoic, others are overwhelmed by emotion and have to be helped into the boats. Sherlock violently pushes John away into the boat as he stumbles into it. John reaches out for him, trusting him as always, and his fingers brush his for a moment. A man scribbles a note and hands it to John, "Please get this to my wife in De Moines, Iowa."

"And lower away!"

The brothers watch at the rail as the boat begins to descend, "That was the last one on this side, brother dear," says Mycroft, turning to him, "A couple more ought to be there on the other side..."

"For God's sake, Mycroft, shut your mouth for once and don't be a prat! I'm not going without you."

Mycroft turns around at him disbelievingly, "He's your mate."

Sherlock frowns, "I know. But we'll make it. We always have."

Mycroft looks down, too ashamed to say anything but sorry, but Sherlock retorts, "Don't think that this changes anything. I still hate you for doing that to me and John. I still hate you for letting me get almost-"

"Oh, big family reconciliation!" Sherlock feels the repulsive, muscular arms of Victor Trevor around him, and tries to reel away. Both brothers spin around at the sight of him, as he smiles from one end to the other of the cheek, "Don't worry sweetpea, I've got an arrangement with a ship's officer here. We can get off safely, okay?"

Victor graces John with a triumphant look, as if staying on the dying ship is going to save him in any manner. Sherlock looks away. Into John's eyes, as they reflect the light from the heavens, from the distress rockets of the ship, at his lips, remembering the feel of them. He closes his eyes for one second, as if deriving his strength from that memory alone. John's face is painful, but Sherlock manages a slight smile, and a reassuring nod.

"My God," Victor exclaims suddenly, "Look at you, Sherlock. You're freezing!"

Even as Victor drapes his own coat around him, his eyes remain hooked onto John.

The ropes going through the pulleys as the seamen start to lower. All sound going away... Wilde giving orders, his lips moving, but John hears only the blood pounding in his ears, this cannot be happening... a rocket bursts above... Sherlock's hair blowing in the chilly wind as he gazes down at John descending away from him... just like the first time John had seen him that afternoon, pained and sad, helpless.

He sees his hand trembling, the tears at the corners of his eyes, and Victor Trevor's arms around him, and cannot believe the unbearable pain he is feeling... He sees Victor's grip tighten on Sherlock's waist. And he sees Sherlock's grip on the edge. His knuckles are white.

Suddenly, John is moving. He gives the slip of paper to Anna and lunges across the women next to him, reaching the gunwale and climbing it, and he hurls himself out of the boat to the rail of the A-Deck promenade, catching it, and scrambling over the rail. The Boat 2 continues down. But John is back on Titanic. He's not leaving Sherlock alone there. And most certainly not with Mycroft and Victor.

"No John!" Sherlock yells as he sees John scramble over, "NOOOO!!"

Sherlock spins from the rail, running for the nearest way down to A-Deck.

Victor and Mycroft too have seen him jump. They're willing to die for each other, Victor thinks, and he is overwhelmed by a rage so all consuming that it eclipses all thought. He has never learned how to lose, and he bloody well isn't going to now.

Sherlock bangs through the doors to the foyer and sprints down the stairs. He sees John coming into A-deck foyer, running toward him, calling his name out continuously. They meet at the bottom of the stairs, and collide in an embrace.

"JOHN WATSON, YOU STUPID IMBECILE, IDIOTIC, PIGHEADED, DRUNK, LUNATIC, DEMENTED, DELIRIOUS MAN!" he almost cries, as he holds him in his arms, kissing him and hugging him with however much strength he can manage, "Why did you do that? WHY?!"

All the while, he cradles his head in his palms, kissing him as if he has never kissed him before.

John is still working his breath up, "You jump, I jump, right?" says he, with a stupid grin/grimace. Sherlock smiles too, bringing their foreheads together, "Right. You're so stupid, John!"

"I - I couldn't go, Sherlock! I'm not leaving you on this ship alone, not with Victor or Mycroft!"

Meanwhile, Victor comes in and runs to the railing. Looking down he sees them locked in their embrace. Mycroft comes up behind him, recognising the murderous look on his face, trying to pull him away, trying to make him realise that he has to go now. But Victor whips around, grabbing the pistol from Gregson's waistband, who stands nearby, in one cobra-fast move.

"Sherlock, run!" Mycroft yells.

He runs along the rail and down the stairs. As he reaches the landing above them he raises the gun. screaming in rage, he fires. John spots him, and grabs Sherlock towards him, leading them away. Mycroft is restrained by Gregson, who's proving to be too much of a match for Mycroft.

The carved cherub at the foot of the centre railing explodes. John pulls Sherlock toward the stairs going down to the next lower deck. Victor fires again, running down the steps toward them. A bullet blows out the oak panelling behind John's head as he pulls Sherlock down the next flight of stairs.

The bottom of the Grand Staircase is flooded several feet deep. Sherlock and John come down the stairs two at a time and run straight into the water, fording across the room to where the floor slopes up, until they reach dry footing at the entrance to the dining saloon.

"Come on, Sherlock! Faster!"

Victor reels down the stairs in time to see John and Sherlock splashing through the water toward the dining saloon. He fires twice. Big gouts of spray near them, but he's not a great shot. The water boils up around his feet and he retreats up the stairs a couple of steps, still firing shots from a gun which is clearly devoid of bullets now. Around him the woodwork groans and creaks.

"Enjoy your time together!!" He calls after them, and then he remembers it. All the brandies. He has left it in the coat, and he has put the coat on Sherlock. He laughs to himself incredulously, and walks up, thinking that he's still the winner. He has got a life, while John and Sherlock would be dead anyway. It's his only consolation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some officers on the Titanic actually allowed newlyweds, so that's what I've done! :) But John is a romantic fool.


	17. He Shall Be Their God Who Is Always With Them

"John!"

They move among the tables and ornate columns, searching... listening... his eyes tracking rapidly for any followers. It is a sea of tables, and they could be anywhere. A silver serving trolley rolls downhill, bumping into tables and pillars. They're in the First Class Dining Saloon. Sherlock glances behind him. The water is following him into the room, advancing in a hundred foot wide tide. The reception room is now a roiling lake, and the grand staircase is submerged past the first landing. Monstrous groans echo through the ship.

They hear someone splashing down the water, or something probably. John still holds on to his hand, as if to assure himself that he was still there, with him, near him. Sherlock is so cold, and John wants nothing more than wrapping his arms around him to make him a little warm. He realises it suddenly, Sherlock has lesser chances of survival than he does. Being an Omega, his body is more fragile, even if he believes otherwise. The grip on his hand strengthens, and in return Sherlock tightens his grip too. They remain crouched behind a table, somewhere in the middle. They see the water advancing toward them, swirling over the floor. They crawl ahead of it to the next row of tables.

"You should've gone, John," says he quietly, his voice not betraying the state of his breath and his heart, "It would've been easier. For me, for you-"

"Duck, Sherlock!" John pushes him away as a metal cart rolls toward him. It hits a table and the stacks of dishes topple out, exploding across the floor and showering him.

"Oh Lord," he breathes out as he sees the sharp edges of the cracked china.

"We need to go back up," says John, "Up the Grand Staircase-"

"No, Victor is there, no doubt with more firearms. Through the Smoking room, I think. We need to move aft, find a piece of wood or something to hold on to."

"Okay. Listen Sherlock," John's eyes flash into his, soft but fearlessly direct, and Sherlock swallows at the feelings it stirs inside him, "I trust you."

His eyes drift to John's lips for a millisecond, and then even forgetting the fact that the ship is sinking, he leans in for a brief kiss with teeth, tongue and lips. And before Sherlock can tell him how much he loves him and how thankful he is that John is with him, John withdraws, helping him up, "To the aft then, let's go."

Sherlock and John run aft... uphill... entering the galley. Behind them the tables have become islands in a lake... and the far end of the room is flooded up to the ceiling. They run through the galley and John spots the stairs. He starts up but Sherlock grabs his hand, leading him down. Not questioning his judgement at all, John follows him down. Sherlock ushers them into a small clearing and waits, holding his breath. Seconds later, Gregson appears above them. They crouch together on the landing as the valet runs to the stairs. Assuming they have gone up (who wouldn't?) he climbs up them two at a time, and John smiles at him.

"Come on!" Sherlock tries to shed the coat that he is wearing, only to hear clinks of glass. He digs in to find the brandies in it. The cigars have become useless. He thrusts one of them to John, "Here, take a swig of this," while he drinks a mouthful of it, instantly warming him up a little, just a little but it's all he needs.

"Do you think," says he as he sips it down his throat, "it's karma that in spite of all the fight, some of these bottles have remained intact?"

"Maybe," says John, giving it back to Sherlock for safekeeping, "God wants us to live, I guess."

And just then, A torrent of water comes pouring down the stairs like rapids. In seconds it is too powerful for them to go against.

"That way!" Sherlock shouts, "We go with the flow."

Charging the other way down the flooding corridor, they blast up spray with each footstep. At the end of the hall are heavy double doors. As Sherlock approaches them he sees water spraying through the gap between the doors right up to the ceiling. The doors groan and start to crack under the tons of pressure.

"Back! Go back!!"

John pivots and runs back the way they came, taking a turn into a cross-corridor just as the double doors blast open. A wall of water thunders into the corridor. They run as a wave blasts around the corner, foaming from floor to ceiling. It gains on them like a locomotive. They make it to a stairway going up, pounding up the steps as white water swirls up behind them. A steel gate blocks the top of the stairs. John slams against the fate, gripping the bars.

"Sherlock, can you?" Says he, knowing the answer. Sherlock shakes his head. There's nothing to open the lock with, not even a makeshift pin. A terrified steward standing guard on the landing above turns to run at the sight of the water thundering up the stairs.

"Wait! Wait!" John yells at the sight of him, "Help us! Unlock the gate."

But the steward runs on. The water wells up around John and Sherlock, pouring through the gate and slamming them against it. In seconds it is up to their waist.

"Help us! Please!"

The steward stops and looks back. He sees Sherlock and John at the gate, their arms reaching through, he sees the water pouring through the gate onto the landing. Seeing the Omega in distress, he swears under his breath as the innate protective instincts take over him and he runs back, slogging against the current. He pulls a key ring from his belt and struggles to unlock the padlock as the water fountains up around them. The lights short out and the landing is plunged into darkness. The water rises over the lock and he's doing it by feel.

"Come on! Come on!"

Sherlock and John are right up against the ceiling... and suddenly the gate gives and swings open. They are pushing through by the force of the water. They make it to stairs on the other side of the landing and follow the steward up to the next deck. They run up seemingly endless stairs as the ship groans and cries around them.

* * *

Victor is rushing through the crowd of people barging towards the ship's Third Class passengers, all of whom have been denied a chance to live. Collapsible A is being prepared for launch, the last boat on the starboard side. He withdraws from the huddle, and looks at his pocket watch. It's two ten in the morning.

Five minutes, he thinks to himself, it'll take him five minutes, and then he makes a run for the nearest suite on A Deck. He rummages through the cupboards, donning a shawl and women's clothes; it's his best bet, not money.

* * *

In the Wireless Room, Bride sees the water advancing menacingly towards them.

"Jack, come on!" he shouts to Philips as he leaves his chair and his Marconi radio equipment, "We gotta go!"

Jack Phillips waits for his CQD to go as he stares at the overpowering force of water claiming the ship in its all-consuming grasp. He swallows, and returns to his machine, "You go. I'll get out at the last moment."

Bride stares at him disbelievingly, "What the hell, Jack?"

But Phillips only gives him a crooked smile, "Gotta send S.O.S, right? Go on... I'll come later."

Bride gives him a nod, and scampers out of there. But Phillips only holds on to his chair, promising to himself that he will send the distress signals till the last moment.

"God help me."

* * *

John and Sherlock make it through the First Class Smoking room, working against the gravity and the slope of the ship. The room is empty except for one. An ashtray falls off the table. They are completely out of breath and soaked as they run through, toward the aft revolving door... then Sherlock recognizes him. He sees that his lifebelt is off, lying on a table.

Thomas Andrews stands in front of the fireplace, staring at the large painting above the mantle. The fire is still going in the fireplace. He is staring up at the painting of Plymouth, the port that Titanic was supposed to go through while making its return journey from New York, a future that remains unfulfilled.

"Wait, John! Mr. Andrews?!"

The naval architect slowly turns in his direction as if he cannot believe his eyes, "Oh, Sherlock. John."

"Won't you even make a try for it?"

A tear escapes his left eye as he extends his hand towards the couple, "Go fast, Sherlock and John. The ship will sink in a matter of minutes... I'm sorry, that I couldn't build a stronger ship for you."

"Come with us, sir," John exhales, and takes another deep breath, "You don't deserve to go down... What about your wife?"

"A father is cursed when he outlives his children..." says he, casting his eyes upon the interiors, "Good luck, to you. Take care of young Sherlock." Andrews picks up his lifebelt and hands it to John along with his greatcoat, smiling his goodbye.

"And to you, Mr. Andrews."

With a slight nod, they run through the revolving door to the Palm Court restaurant. Sherlock stuffs some of the brandies in Andrews' coat as they go.

* * *

It's complete chaos and rush in the Port side. Lightoller, with a group of crew and passengers, is trying to get Collapsible B down from the roof. They slide it down a pair of oars leaned against the deck house.

"Hold it! Hold it!"

The crowd is threatening to rush the boat. They push and jostle, yelling and shouting at the officers. The pressure from behind pushes them forward, and one guy falls off the edge of the deck into the water less than ten feet below.

Smith watches the maddening rush with a heavy heart. His lips tremble, and although the reality has sunk in hours ago, he still finds it hard to believe, even as the water climbs up the bow, flooding the engine telegraph room. An Irishwoman comes up to him, cradling her baby in her arms, "Captain, where should I go? Please."

She looks at her in shock, and to the little life in her arms sleeping peacefully, sucking its thumb in sleep. He doesn't trust his judgement anymore. He can see for himself what his decision has done. He does a take at the water approaching them, and stumbles away, mumbling an incoherent apology. A seaman pulls off his lifebelt and catches up to Captain Smith as he walks to the bridge. He proffers it, but Smith seems to stare through him. Without a word he turns and goes onto the bridge. He enters the enclosed wheelhouse and closes the door behind him. He is alone, surrounded by the gleaming brass instruments. He seems to inwardly collapse.

Standing near the wheel, he watches the black water climbing the windows of the enclosed wheelhouse. He has the stricken expression of a damned soul on Judgement Day. The windows burst suddenly and a wall of water edged with shards of glass slams into Smith. The seaman sees him disappear in a vortex of foam.

At a distance, the band finishes the waltz. They're scared to death upon seeing the rushing water advancing mercilessly towards them. Wallace Hartley looks at the orchestra members.

"Right, that's it then. Gentlemen, it has been a privilege playing with you tonight."

They say their goodbyes hurriedly, in the hope of finding a last boat, "So long, old chap."

"Good luck, Wally."

They leave him, walking forward along the deck. Hartley sees the water and with a resolute face, towering over it fearlessly, he puts his violin to his chin and bows the first notes of "Nearer My God to Thee". One by one the band members turn, hearing the lonely melody. Without a word they walk back and take their rightful places, the way they always stand in the Dining Saloon during every dinner. They join in with Hartley, filling out the sound so that it reaches all over the ship on this still night, keeping out the cold.

In the smoking room, Andrews stands like a statue. He pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. Then he opens the face of the mantle clock and adjusts it to the correct time: 2:12 a.m. Everything must be correct.

On the bed, lying side by side, fully clothed, in a first class cabin are elderly Ida and Isidor Strauss, staring at the ceiling, holding hands like young lovers. Water pours into the room through a doorway. It swirls around the bed, two feet deep rising fast. Isidor leans in, kissing her, smiling.

On the port side, Collapsible B is picked up by water. Working frantically, the men try to detach it from the falls so the ship won't drag it under. Colonel Gracie hands Lightoller a pocket knife and he saws furiously at the ropes as the water swirls around his legs. The boat, still upside down, is swept off the ship. Men start diving in, swimming to stay with it.

In Collapsible A, Victor has managed to gain entry into one of the last boats by posing as a woman. He watches the water rising around the men as they work, scrambling to get the ropes cut so the ship won't drag the collapsible under. The boat is hit by a wave as the bow plunges suddenly. It partially swamps the boat, washing it along the deck. Over a hundred passengers are plunged into the freezing water and the area around the boat becomes a frenzy of splashing, screaming people.

As men are trying to climb into the boat, Victor grabs an oar and pushes them back into the water, squealing in a feminine voice, "Get back! You'll swamp us!"

The boat is whirled like a leaf in the currents around the sinking ship. It slams against the side of the forward funnel. Victor shouts, "Row! Row you bastards!!"

People are drawn up against the grating of a stokehold vent as water pours through it. The force of tons of water roaring down the ship traps him against it, and they are dragged down under the surface as the ship sinks. Men struggles to free himself but cannot.

Suddenly there is a concussion deep in the bowels of the ship as a furnace explodes and a blast of hot air belches out of the ventilator, ejecting some of the other men. They surface in a roar of foam and keeps swimming, thanking God.

Water roars through the doors and windows, cascading down the stairs like a rapids. John Jacob Astor is swept down the marble steps to A-Deck, which is already flooded, a roiling vortex. He grabs the headless cherub at the bottom of the staircase and wraps his arms around it.

Astor looks up in time to see the 30 foot glass dome overhead exploding inwards with the wave of water washing over it. A Niagara of sea water thunders down into the room, blasting through the first class opulence. It is the Armageddon of elegance.

* * *

Sherlock and John run out of the Palm court into a dense crowd. John pushes his way to the rail and looks at the state of the ship. The bridge is under water and there is chaos on deck. John helps Sherlock into the lifebelt, tying it around him tightly. People stream around them, shouting and pushing.

"One two three, go!"

They take another mouthful of the whisky, and dump it into their coats. Sherlock sees the overturned lifeboats in the water, just like he had predicted in the afternoon. Right on cue, John asks him, "Can we make it?"

"We have to. The ship's suction is just going to pull us down."

"We won't make it far enough, not with zero oars."

They clamber over the A-Deck aft rail. Then, using all his strength, Sherlock lowers John toward the deck below, holding on with one hand. He dangles, then falls. Sherlock jumps down behind him neatly. They join a crush of people literally clawing and scrambling over each other to get down the narrow stairs to the well deck... the only way aft.

Seeing that the stairs are impossible, Sherlock climbs over the B-Deck railing followed by John. He lowers him again, and Sherlock falls in a heap. John hauls him to his feet. John drops down and the two of them push through the crowd across the well deck. Near them, at the rail, people are jumping into the water.

"Last chance," says John, looking down at the water below him. Sherlock swallows at the sight of the boat already being pulled in by the suction. He realises that it is now an impossibility.

"No! We keep moving aft. We have to stay on the ship as long as possible."

The stay cables along the top of the funnel snap, and they lash like steel whips down into the water. Victor watches as the funnel topples from its mounts. Falling like a temple pillar twenty eight feet across it crashes into the water and onto the overturned lifeboats with a tremendous splash. People swimming underneath it disappear in an instant.

Mycroft, a few feet away, is hurled back by a huge wave. He comes up, gasping... still swimming. The water pouring into the open end of the funnel draws in several swimmers. The funnel sinks, disappearing, but--

Hundreds of tons of water pour down through the 30 foot hole where the funnel stood, thundering down into the belly of the ship. A whirlpool forms, a hole in the ocean, like at enormous toiler-flush. people swim in a frenzy as the vortex draws them in. They are sucked down like a spider going down a drain.

Mycroft, nearby, swims like hell as more people are sucked down behind him. He manages to get clear. He's going to live no matter what it takes.

John and Sherlock struggle to climb the well deck stairs as the ship tilts. Hundreds of people are already on the poop deck, and more are pouring up every second. Sherlock and John cling together as they struggle across the tilting deck. People are jumping from the well deck, the poop deck, the gangway doors. Some hit debris in the water and are hurt or killed. Wilde and Lightoller throw deck chairs into the sea, hoping for people to hold on to them, to help them survive. Murdoch joins his fellow officers from the starboard side, "Lowe's gone with Boat 14," he reports to Wilde faithfully.

As the bow goes down, the stern rises. Mycroft gapes as the giant bronze propellers rise out of the water like gods of the deep. His eyes reflect the ship's stern hanging up in the air and he fights against his instincts to go and save his little brother. He has seen the look in John's eyes. John could do anything to save him. The image is shocking, unbelievable, unthinkable. He stares at the spectacle, unable to frame it or put it into any proportion.

"Mr. Holmes!"

There's a boat coming towards him, with Lightoller in charge. He recognises Mycroft as the gentleman who had been helping the women onboard, "Come on, sir, I've got you!"

Mycroft says his thanks to anyone who listens. His goodness is his salvation.

* * *

In the Wireless room, Phillips keys his S.O.S. furiously, as the water advances around him, engulfing him slowly. On the poop deck, John and Sherlock struggle aft as the angle increases. Hundreds of passengers, clinging to every fixed object on deck, huddle on their knees around a padre, who has his voice raised in prayer. They are praying, sobbing, or just staring at nothing, their minds blank with dread. Pulling himself from handhold to handhold, John tugs Sherlock aft along the deck.

"Come on, Sherlock. We can't expect God to do all the work for us."

They struggle on, pushing through the praying people. A man loses his footing ahead and slides toward them. Sherlock catches him before he can go any further.

"Thank ya, sir!" says he, feeling grateful. They make it to the stern rail, right at the base of the flagpole. They grip the rail, jammed in between other people. It is the spot where John had pulled Sherlock back onto the ship, just three nights... and a lifetime... ago.

Above the wailing and sobbing, the padre's voice carries, cracking with emotion.

"...and I saw new heavens and a new earth. The former heavens and the former earth had passed away and the sea was no longer.

The lights flicker, threatening to go out. John grips Sherlock as the stern rises into a night sky ablaze with stars.

"...I also saw a new Jerusalem, the holy city coming down out of heaven from God, beautiful as a bride prepared to meet her husband. I heard a loud voice from the throne ring out this is God's dwelling among men. He shall dwell with them and they shall be his people and He shall be their God who is always with them."

Shivering, Sherlock stares about him at the faces of the doomed. Near them are the Hooper family, clinging together stoically. Molly looks at him and John briefly, and her eyes are infinitely sad. Sherlock sees a young mother next to him, clutching her five year old son, who is crying in terror. He feels overwhelmed by the emotion and the terror in him.

"Shhh. Don't cry. It'll be over soon, darling. It'll all be over soon."

The padre's voice wafts through, now strong and steady, "He shall wipe every tear from their eyes. And there shall be no more death or mourning, crying out or pain, for the former world has passed away."

"Sherlock," says John, looking into his eyes, smiling weakly, "This is where we first met."

He looks around him. It is indeed. How mind can play tricks into making Sherlock see the death around him, while John only sees the time and the moments they have spent together. He wants to tell John that they aren't going to die, that they'll make through this. But all he does is wrap a stronger arm around his Alpha's waist, kissing his forehead. A false promise is much worse than a promise never made.

"Okay," says John, trying to be cheerful for Sherlock's sake, but the latter can feel the dread in him, "I'll try a sermon of - of my own. Sh-Sherlock Holmes, we're gonna - we're gonna get out of here, hmm?"

The lights flicker, and they finally go out. Forever.

"Okay," says he, looking around at the darkness, "That's... not a good start." Despite himself, Sherlock and John share a quick, quiet laugh at that, "John, I..."

"No, YOU listen to me, you clever, clever... idiot. We... we're going to get out of here.. and then... we're gonna go to New York, okay? You're gonna... you're gonna go to university, and I'm gonna go to medical college - and then - we're gonna solve lots of... crimes together, okay?" With that, John plants a kiss on his lips, "We are going to, alright?"

Sherlock brings their foreheads together, shivering with cold, "And then we'll sue White Star Line."

John giggles, "Yes, we'll d-do that. And then... you can... insult all the New Yorkers' in - intelligence all day, okay?"

Sherlock simply holds on to him, feeling the tension seep back into him just as John stops talking.

* * *

In one of the boats, Bruce Ismay has his back to the ship, unable to watch the great steamer die. He is catatonic with remorse, his mind overloaded. He can avert his eyes, but he can't block out the sounds of dying people and machinery.

Near the third funnel a man clutches the ship's rail. He stares down as the deck splits right between his feet. A yawning chasm opens with a thunder of breaking steel. People are clutching the railing on the roof of the Officers' Mess. They watch in horror as the ship's structure rips apart right in front of them.

Gregson, of those people, gapes down into a widening maw, seeing straight down into the bowels of the ship, amid a booming concussion like the sound of artillery. People falling into the widening crevasse look like dolls. The stay cables on the funnel part and snap across the decks like whips, ripping off davits and ventilators. A man is hit by a whipping cable. Another cable smashes the rail next to Gregson and it rips free. He falls backward into the pit of jagged metal.

Fires, explosions and sparks light the yawning chasm as the hull splits down through nine decks to the keel. The sea pours into the gaping wound. In the engine rooms, it is a thundering black hell. Men scream as monstrous machinery comes apart around them, steel frames twisting like candy. Their torches illuminate the roaring, foaming demon of water as it races at the through the machines. Trying to climb they are overtaken in seconds.

The stern half of the ship falls back toward the water. On the poop deck everyone screams as they feel themselves plummeting. The sound goes up like the roar of fans at a stadium when a goal is scored. Swimming in the water directly under the stern a few unfortunates shriek as they see the keel coming down on them like God's boot heel. The massive stern section falls back almost level, thundering down into the sea and pushing out a mighty wave of displaced water.

John and Sherlock struggle to hold onto the stern rail. They feel the ship seemingly right itself. Some of those praying think it is salvation. Cries of "we're saved" erupt from everywhere. But Sherlock simply looks at John and shakes his head, grimly as the horrible mechanics play out.

Pulled down by the awesome weight of the flooded bow, the buoyant stern tilts up rapidly. They feel the rush of ascent as the fantail angles up again. Everyone is clinging to benches, railings, ventilators... anything to keep from sliding as the stern lifts.

The stern goes up and up, past 45 degrees, then past sixty. People start to fall, sliding and tumbling. They skid down the deck, screaming and flailing to grab onto anything. They wrench other people loose and pull them down as well. There is a pile-up of bodies at the forward rail.

"We have to move!" says John, climbing over the stern rail and reaching back for Sherlock, "Come on, I've got you! I won't let go!"

John pulls him over the rail. It is the same place he had pulled him over the rail three nights earlier, only this time it's the other direction. Sherlock gets over just as the railing is going horizontal, and the deck vertical. John grips his hand fiercely.

"Is that your... standard dialogue?" Sherlock attempts to joke.

"I'd stop if we weren't thrown off ships for a change. Brandy now, one two three, go!"

The two of them take another mouthful of brandy, and grin to themselves, despite their situation. The whisky burns their throats, giving them just the warmth they need.

"We're... going to... have to finish from... the glass ones first," Sherlock points out, "Freezing water below."

"You're trying to get me drunk? Now?!"

The stern is now straight up in the air... a rumbling black monolith standing against the stars. It hangs there like that for a long grace note, its buoyancy stable. Sherlock lies on the railing, looking down fifteen stories to the boiling sea at the base of the stern section. People near them, who didn't climb over, hang from the railing, their legs dangling over the long drop. They fall one by one, plummeting down the vertical face of the poop deck. Some of them bounce horribly off deck benches and ventilators.

"If it helps save you from the cold, yes. At any rate, it isn't that bad."

John and Sherlock lie side by side on what was the vertical face of the hull, gripping the railing, which is now horizontal. John stares down terrified at the black ocean waiting below to claim them. Sherlock looks to his left and sees a man in a baker uniform, crouching on the hull, holding onto the railing. It is a surreal moment. He holds up the brandy to him, "Want some?"

The baker lets out a shuddery white exhale, and takes it with a thanks, nodding them a greeting, "Helluva night."

The final relentless plunge begins as the stern section floods. Looking down a hundred feet to the water, they drop like an elevator with its cables snapped, as if they are in freefall. The roar of the ocean is deafening, but Sherlock manages to yell as loudly and as fast as he can manage, "Take a deep breath and hold it right before we go into the water... The ship WILL suck us down... Kick for the surface... and keep kicking... Don't let go of my hand. Like you said, we're gonna make it, John. Trust me."

John stares at the water coming up at them, and grips his hand harder, "I trust you."

Below them the poop deck is disappearing. The plunge gathers speed, the boiling surface engulfs the docking bridge and then rushes up the last few metres.

"Ready? Now!"

The stern descends into the boiling sea. Where the ship stood, now there is nothing. Only the black ocean, restless and churning.


	18. Is There A 'John Watson' On Your List?

The occupants of Boat 8 watch as the stern section of the ship bobbles in the sea like a cork, and then sinks down rapidly. The sight is reflected in the Countess' glassy eyes, who beckons to seaman Jones about going back to rescue some of those in the water. But only three other passengers agree with them, and seaman Jones has no choice but to acquiesce. The women won't meet the Countess' eyes. They huddle into their ermine wraps.

"We would be at risk of the boat being capsized by desperate swimmers," says one of them, her eyes full of tears.

The Countess and the seaman exchange apprehensive looks, "Ladies, if any of us are saved, remember  _I_  wanted to go back... I would rather drown with them than leave them."

Some of them laughed sarcastically, dismissing the suggestion as hypothetical. One of the stewards aboard pulls out a fag and starts smoking to keep himself warm. Some of them cough at the unwelcome smoke, complaining silently. But the steward only scoffs at her, "If you don't stop talking through that hole in your face there will be one less in the boat!"

The Countess clears her throat, "Give me a hand, ladies, and keep rowing the boat. It'll keep you warmer, and it is a much better alternative than choking on smoke."

Seaman Jones throws that steward a dirty look, "Aye, men! Let's row!"

* * *

Sherlock holds on to John as they kick hard and violently for the surface. Bodies are whirled and spun around them, some limp as dolls, others struggling spasmodically, as the vortex sucks them down and tumbles them. At the moment, the water is not very icy, it's scalding hot and boiling, due to the steam from the boilers. Sherlock grabs Andrews' overcoat that John is wearing, and digs into the pockets, throwing away the empty bottles of whisky that are weighing them down. They hold each other tightly, pulling themselves up.

And then, Sherlock feels a jerk behind him, and feels the bindings of his lifebelt choking him. A man is holding onto the lifebelt, trying to save himself from being pulled down. His fingers reach instinctively to loosen the pressure against his chest, and suddenly John is out of his grasp, and is being sucked away from him, downwards, towards the descent of the ship. He tries to scream his name, but only a torrent of saltwater enters his lungs. He kicks his leg furiously, tugging at the lifebelt. The water around him is of a dirty and wicked green shade, and suddenly the searing pain of the cold is attacking him again, pain that is beyond any meaning and that knows no understanding, crawling through under his skin and obliterating all thoughts.

He manages to push the man away, and extends his arms around to feel for John. He can't open his eyes, but before he can manage, he rises up, and his nose and slowly his shoulders are out of the water, water that is full of a roiling chaos of screaming, thrashing people. Over a thousand people are now floating where the ship went down. Some are stunned, gasping for breath. Others are crying, praying, moaning, shouting... screaming. It's terrifying to come out of the water without John, without his hand in his.

"John!" he manages harshly, still not opening his eyes, saltwater sticking to every inch of his body, and making its way treacherously into his eyes. But he barely has time to gasp for air before people are clawing at him. People driven insane by the water, 4 degrees below freezing, a cold so intense it is indistinguishable from death by fire. He tries to cough, get the water out of his lungs, but his mouth is only partially open before he is pushed underwater again. Someone grabs him, and pushes him under, trying to climb on top of him... senselessly trying to get out of the water, to climb onto anything. He tries to ascend upwards, but a brutal pair of hands push him underneath again. He manages to somehow elbow that man between his legs and rise up again.

"JOHN!"

But John is nowhere to be seen, among the waters swarming with dying people. For the first time, he is in a fix. He needs to search for John, and that might keep him warm as well, but he has no wish to be pulled underwater again, and he needs to keep his strength with him for as long as possible. But he also cannot wait in one place, because the hypothermia would set in more rapidly then, and John would be lost to him. So, he keeps searching, pushing people away from him, calling John's name desperately. He tries to swim, but his strokes are not as effective as they should've been because of his lifejacket. He breaks out of the clot of people. He has to find some kind of flotation, anything to get himself out of the freezing water. A shot of pain bursts out through his chest and he gasps at the intensity of it, just as strong as the pain he had felt when John had first entered him. An instinctive panic runs through him.

"John!"

"Sherlock!"

He frantically turns around, the sound seems to have come from everywhere around him, but John is still nowhere to be seen. All about him there is a tremendous wailing, screaming and moaning... a chorus of tormented souls. And beyond that... nothing but black water stretching to the horizon. The sense of isolation and hopelessness is overwhelming.

"John?!" His voice breaks at the last note, the cold has begun to take over him. He simply looks around for something floating. Some debris... wood... anything. But his efforts don't take his mind off the wailing around them. He carefully scans the water, panting, barely able to draw a breath. Someone beside him screams all of a sudden, and Sherlock turns around to find himself staring right in the face of the devil.

It is a black bulldog, swimming right at him like a sea monster in the darkness, its coal eyes bugging. It motors past him, like it is headed for Newfoundland. Beyond it Sherlock sees something in the water. It is a piece of wooden debris, intricately carved. He pushes himself up and slithers onto it belly down.

At least out of the water, he attempts to sit on it, so that it gives him a higher ground to scan for his Alpha. He cups his palm and calls out loudly over the din, "John!"

The pain in his chest becomes worse as he calls his name, and it feels as if someone is stabbing him through his heart. His breath floats around him in a cloud as he pants from exertion. A man swims toward him, homing in on the piece of debris. But when he tries to get on that door, it tilts and submerges, almost dumping Sherlock off. In a desperate attempt to live, Sherlock pushes the man away, and clambers onto it again, warning him off.

"There's plenty of debris out there. This one's enough for me and my Alpha."

The man clings to it, keeping his upper body out of the water as best he can, "Let me try at least, or I'll die soon."

"You'll die quicker if you come any closer," he growls, and tries to row in the direction where he and John had been separated. He sees the ship's officer Wilde nearby, holding onto a piece of debris. He is blowing his whistle furiously, knowing the sound will carry over the water for miles. He is shivering uncontrollably, his lips blue and his teeth chattering. Sherlock rows towards him, using his forearms as oars, "Mr. Wilde! Bring these... two together, then you... can get on... too," he clutches his chest, and his fingers reach over to the bite that John had made on his skin earlier. It feels like it is starting to fade. Sherlock is sure he is just imagining it, although that has never imagined things. John is somewhere out there, searching for him as well. If he could've survived this long, John surely had. He's an Alpha, his body and his tolerance are much stronger than his.

"Mr. Holmes," says he, his whole body shivering, "Than-thank you!" As Wilde somehow manages to get onto the makeshift raft, people around them are still screaming, calling to the lifeboats.

"Come back! Please! We know you can hear us. For God's sake!"

Panic-stricken, Sherlock wants to ask the man about John, but he knows that there would be many around with the description of short blond young Alpha, not that Wilde would've noticed given that anyone else would be too busy to save their own lives. So, he does the only things he can do, he searches for John.

Twenty boats nearby, most half full, float in the darkness. None of them make a move. In Boat 1, Sir Cosmo and Lucile Duff-Gordon sit with ten other people in a boat that is two thirds empty. They are two hundred yards from the screaming in the darkness. One of the stokers says in a voice that is drained of vitality, "We should do something."

Lucile squeezes Cosmo's hand and pleads him with her eyes. She is terrified.

"It's out of the question," says Sir Cosmo. The crew members, intimidated by a nobleman, acquiesce. They hunch guiltily, hoping the sound will stop soon.

* * *

Sherlock drifts under the blazing stars. The water is glassy, with only the faintest undulating swell. Sherlock can actually see the stars reflecting on the black mirror of the sea. He is still looking for John, although his voice is almost gone now. He squeezes the water out of his long coat, tucking it in tightly around his legs, rubbing his arms. His face is chalk with in the darkness. There's a low moaning in the darkness around him. Beside him, Officer Wilde has stopped moving. He is slumped against the raft in his lifejacket, looking almost asleep. He has died of exposure already. But Sherlock doesn't give up, despite how quiet it is. He takes in a last swig of the brandy.

"J-ohn," he calls out, his cracked voice not even reaching a couple of metres away. He knows that the boats won't come back anytime soon, not with the first-class and their purses onboard. He's having trouble getting the breath to even open his mouth and utter a single sound. The pain had increased exponentially over the hours that have rolled by. Maybe, John managed a boat for himself, and got on it. Sherlock wants to believe it, but his rational mind knows that John will never get onboard without him. He can't feel his legs, or his toes. Maybe the pain is not the Bond dissolving, maybe it is just John's distress upon not having found his Omega, and that of Sherlock's too, combining together and travelling through the Bond. The ache is over all his body, only rendered worse by the cold, but it is so very much excruciating in his chest that it blinds all the other. His voice trembles with the cold which is working its way to his heart. But his eyes are unwavering as he stares into the distance, alert to any movement. For the first time, being alone truly terrifies him. And being without John almost makes him wish he were dead.

_We... we're going to get out of here.. and then... we're gonna go to New York, okay? You're gonna... you're gonna go to university, and I'm gonna go to medical college - and then - we're gonna solve lots of... crimes together, okay?_

He laughs weakly at John's words, but it's like a gasp of fear. They were supposed to live together in New York. He was supposed to go to university. John was supposed to go to medical college. And then he would be... a detective, just like John had suggested once.

All that seems uncertain now. It is quiet and lonely around Sherlock, except for the lapping of the water. A small tear escapes his eyes at the intensity of the pain as he writhes slowly on the raft, his entire figure contorting with the ache inside him, and the tiny drop of water instantly freezes at the corner of his eyes.

A shooting star flares, a line of light across the heavens. Sherlock has no wish to make anymore. John has proved it to him on that party night. Shooting stars don't work. Otherwise the Titanic would still have been going at 20 knots over the Atlantic.

He raises his fingers to his lips with a mountain of effort, unabashed for feeling so sentimental in the last moments of his life. His face is pale, like the faces of the dead, in a semi-hallucinatory state. His hair is dusted with frost crystals, frozen to the wood under him. His breathing is so shallow as his fingers trail over his lips, remembering the feel of John's mouth over his when they had kissed for the first time. His eyes track down from the stars to the water.

This is it, he thinks. He has never expected a long life for himself anyway. Not when he had thought that he wouldn't get out of his marriage to Victor. And surely not when he had flirted with the idea of being a detective. He only wishes he could've told John how much he loves him, and how thankful he is to him for being his saviour. He only wishes that he could've known him since the day he was born, so that they could've laughed more together, made love together, and if only he could've shown John more of his experiments. There is just so much left to say, and that's what hurts the most in every bone of his body, to die a dissatisfied and meaningless death. The only thing he is thankful for is that John won't have to see him die.

"I love you, John..." he whispers to the silence around him, hoping irrationally that his voice will carry itself to John.

* * *

"Now make sure that's tied up nice and tight!"

Fifth Officer Lowe, the baby-faced but impetuous young Welshman, turns towards the slowly dying noise in the sea. For one second, he frets over in his mind, and then in a flash, a decision crosses through him as his jaw clenches, "Right, listen to me men. We have to go back! I want you to transfer from this boat into that one right now."

The seamen look  at him indecisively, at which he only barks at them, "As quick as you can please."

He gets the Boats 10, 12 and Collapsible A together with his own boat. A demon of energy, he has had everyone hold the boats together and is transferring passengers from his boat into the others, to empty his boat for a rescue attempt.

"Bring in your oars over there! Tie these two boats together as well!"

As the women step gingerly across the other boats, Lowe sees a figure in shawl in too much of a hurry. He rips the shawl off, and finds himself staring into the face of Victor Trevor. He angrily shoves him into another boat and turns to his crew of three.

"Right, man the oars," he turns back to the black sea ahead of them, hoping for some survivors as the beam of his electric torch dances across the darkness like a searchlight.

* * *

They arrive upon a sea of bodies rather than water, like a wave has suddenly struck them dead. Lowe and his officers look about for any survivors, taking care not to hit the bodies with their oars.

The torch illuminates the floating debris, a poignant trail of flotsam: a violin, a child's wooden soldier, a framed photo of a steerage family. Daniel Marvin's wooden Biograph camera.

"Right ahead sir."

Then, their white lifebelts bobbing in the darkness like signposts, the first bodies come into the torch's beam. The people are dead but not drowned, killed by the freezing water. Some look like they could be sleeping. Others stare with frozen eyes at the stars.

"Do you see any moving?"

"No, sir. None."

"Check them."

Soon the pileup of the bodies are so thick the seamen cannot row. They hit the oars on the heads of floating men and women. Every face is rimmed with growing frost upon them. One seaman throws up. Lowe sees a mother floating with her arms frozen around her lifeless baby. The searchlight dances a beam quite a distance away as Lowe's hands are shaking. It is the worst moment of his life.

"We waited too long."

"Is anyone alive out there?" One of the crew calls out to the emptiness, making Lowe snap out of his reverie. Apart from regret, fear is the most dominant emotion flooding through him, as if he were going through the land of the damned, and as if the souls of all the men and women would drag him down into the sea any time.

"Can anybody hear me? Hello?"

Sherlock's eyes are closed, as he feels the last reserves of his energy leaving him. He cannot feel surprise for having lived for so long, maybe it was the brandy which helped. The pain has stopped ages ago, and now he feels nothing. After having felt so much sentiment over the past week, the sensation of not feeling anything leaves him empty. The frost has plastered his eyelids together. The slow and distorted voices of the men reach his ears as he slowly cranes his neck upwards. The silhouette of a boat crossing the stars, like he's in a dream where everything moves in slow-motion. He sees men in it, rowing so slowly the oars lift out of the syrupy water, leaving weightless pearls floating in the air in his vision.

A boat.

Then the lookout flashes his torch toward Sherlock and the light flares across the water, silhouetting the bobbing corpses in between. It flicks past his motionless form and moves on. The boat is 50 feet away, and moving past him. The men look away, mistaking Sherlock's lifeless form for dead.

"No," he calls out, barely audible.

John. John might have been picked up. That's why the pain had stopped. Maybe the Bond was still there, he needed to see John, then he would know. He looks at the boat. It is further away now, the voices fainter. Sherlock watches them go, trying to shout out to them that he is alive.

"Come back. Come back!"

He raises his head suddenly, a sudden spurt of energy running through him at the thought of seeing John again, at the thought of suddenly surprising him like jumping out of a cake. He snaps his neck towards the receding boat, cracking the ice as he rips his hair off the wood. Sherlock calls out again, but his voice is so weak that they don't hear him. The boat is invisible now, the torch light a star impossibly far away. He struggles to draw breath, calling again.

"I'm coming, John. I'm coming... I'm coming..."

He grabs the whistle from Wilde's lips who is lying just beside him, and blows into it as hard as he can, with all the strength in his body. Its sound slaps across the still water. He imagines Lowe whip around at the sound of the whistle, and the light of the torch hit his face harshly.

"Come about!" comes Lowe's strong voice as the boat seems to turn about. Sherlock keeps blowing as the boat comes to him. He is still blowing when Lowe takes the whistle from his mouth as the Alphas haul him into the boat. He slips into unconsciousness and they scramble to cover him with blankets...

"John," is the last word that leaves his lips.

* * *

Hours later, Sherlock stares blankly into the lightening sky, lying swaddled in blankets. Only his face is visible, white as the moon. The Alpha next to him jumps up, pointing and yelling. Soon everyone is looking and shouting excitedly. Sherlock's fingers reach out for the cigarette in the man's fingers, who he looks surprised but then acquiesces. He drinks in the smoke, as if filling himself with life. John wasn't going to see him like this, he reasons.

Lowe lights a green flare and waves it as everyone shouts and cheers. Golden light washes across the white boats, which float in a calm sea reflecting the rosy sky. All around them, like a convoy of sailing ships, are icebergs. Carpathia sits nearby, as boats row toward her.

Sherlock is slowly helped up the rope ladder to the Carpathia's gangway doors by Lowe and his crew, and by the crew of Carpathia. He looks around him. It's all steerage, except for one.

Bruce Ismay climbs aboard. He has the face and eyes of a damned soul. As he walks along the hall, guided by a crewman toward the doctor's cabin, he passes rows of seated and standing widows. He must run from the gauntlet of their accusing gazes.

"Ex-excuse me," Sherlock manages to speak, "Is there a 'John Watson' on your list?"

The steward checks the list, "I'm afraid not, sir. Perhaps his boat hasn't arrived yet. This way, sir."

Perhaps.


	19. Checkmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All karma against Victor sets in as Sherlock takes his revenge at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very different chapter from that of Titanic. I don't know whether in a good way or a bad way.
> 
> Some of the readers wanted revenge at a very early stage. So I waited till it became the worst sort of thing Sherlock could do to Victor despite not having any power or money.
> 
> Mostly dialogue. Please forgive any historical errors here.

It is the afternoon of the 15th. All the lifeboats have arrived. Victor is searching the faces of the widows lining the deck, still looking for Sherlock while he has changed into a tuxedo. The deck of Carpathia is crammed with quiet and huddled people, and even some of the recovered lifeboats of Titanic. On a hatch cover sits an enormous pile of lifebelts.

He keeps walking toward the stern. Seeing Victor's tuxedo, a steward approaches him.

"You won't find any of your people here, sir. It's all steerage."

Victor ignores him and goes amongst this wrecked group, looking under shawls and blankets at one bleak face after another. Sherlock is sipping hot tea, just about to go and ask a steward about John for the second time. He senses his presence behind him, the revolting and dominant scent of his, and he quickly hides his face, sudden and very welcome anger bubbling through him. He has a temptation to turn around and declare to Victor that he was alive, with John as well, but hiding is the better alternative. So he looks away, wrapping his figure into something smaller, and drawing his shoulder in.

Soon he finds his scent receding and does one take at his face. Victor looks surprisingly lost and heartbroken, stricken with emotion. But Sherlock fixes his retreating figure with a glare as cold and hard as the ice which changed their lives. He's glad that his Omega scent is gone for the time being. And he knows that it'll intensify after a week. Finding some requisite energy in him, he stands up, tall and trying to look imposing as always, Victor's coat still on his shoulders, and goes over to the steward who was currently being accosted by a sobbing Scottish woman.

"Do you have a 'John Watson' in there?"

The steward checks his list bottom to up, "None, sir, I'm afraid."

For some reason, Sherlock attempts a placating smile, but ends up only stretching his mouth insincerely across his cheeks before dropping the expression altogether. But far from convinced, he wraps a piece of cloth across his cheeks, only his eyes scanning the whole place, and he sets out to look for John himself. John might not have his name. Maybe even he was searching for him, like Sherlock was. Even Sherlock has not given his name in the list. So he does the only thing he can within his power. He hides his face and searches, only hoping that his eyes won't give him away, making his figure appear smaller by slouching his shoulder so that his height would be indistinguishable.

He sees Lady Cosmo organise a group photograph on Carpathia's deck with all those rescued in Boat 1 wearing their lifejackets for the camera while the rest of the survivors watch incredulously. He sees her smile widely into it as Sherlock walks away from them, wondering what wrong sort of people were picked up by the rescue boats.

A complete contrast to the appearance of the lack of empathy from the Duff-Gordons is the Countess of Rothes, who is knitting little clothes for babies a couple of metres away, whilst helping the steerage immensely by providing them with hot water, forgetful of her own sufferings and exhaustion. A stewardess beside helps her hush a crying baby, "You have made yourself famous by rowing the boats, ma'am."

But the Countess shakes her head gracefully, "I hope not; I have done nothing."

Sherlock walks through the lounge in Carpathia, and takes the surreal scene into his eyes, searing into his brain. There's a First Class woman badly affected by cold, supported by Quartermaster Oliver. Seeing her still shivering, he takes his socks off, and provides the woman with those. She frowns, instantly rejecting them, upon which he says, "I assure you, ma'am, they are perfectly clean. I just put them on the previous morning."

The woman stares at him in horror and is even more determined not to take them. Beside them, he sees the ship's officer Herb Pitman, looking suicidal and haunted by guilt at having not gone back, at not having saved his fellow officers and shipmates: Wilde, Moody and Murdoch, who had insisted that he get on the boat. He looks up at Sherlock, who saunters past him, looking almost like the Grim Reaper and cowers.

A few chairs away, he happens to come upon a group of First Class women bickering to each other over minor annoyances, and comparing how bored they were in those lifeboats. Suddenly, Sherlock wants to humiliate them. How dare they talk about such things when more than 1500 were dying in the sea, while Sherlock was still searching for John, while a mother kept her arms out of the water to keep her little baby from freezing, and while Officer Wilde resolutely kept blowing his whistle with all his strength, while he remained in fear than his Bond with John was breaking? He still passes away, like a shadow among the First Class.

His eyes finally find a familiar figure. He sucks in a breath when he realises that it is Mycroft and Andrea, sitting with Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft is beyond all human emotion, his shoulders hunched, his eyes staring  into nothingness and filled with only one thing: guilt, outside of time, outside of himself, drowned in his grief. Andrea is stoic, as she makes no attempt to say anything, knowing that Mycroft cannot hear her. All she can do is hold on to his hand, providing him with grounding contact. Mrs. Hudson sobs quietly into a handkerchief, and Mycroft doesn't even try and placate her.

Tearing his eyes away, and looking into the face of every hunched figure, Sherlock walks past the grieving people. After taking a full tour of the ship, when he cannot find him, he sits down on the deck, curling into a ball against the wall, all alone and weak from the exertion, all spirit leaving him. John is not there on Carpathia.

He checks with another steward. He asks whether if there's a possibility of anyone being picked up by another ship. The steward says that they were doing everything that they could.

He checks with another. There's no 'John Watson'.

The Bond, believing in neither logic nor evidence, begs to differ.

* * *

Thursday, 18th April, 1912, 9:25 pm

Sherlock stands at the railing of the Carpathia, gazing up blankly at the Statue of Liberty welcoming him to New York with her glowing torch and optimism. In his mind, he is more than just broken. He is angry at the injustice, at the anomaly of the Bond still existing. After mourning John for three days, all he can feel is hatred towards Victor Trevor, for making John jump back to the ship. He hates White Star Line for providing less number of lifeboats. He hates the Mauretania for not being more luxurious, for making Victor change their reservations at the last minute. He hates the full house which made John win the tickets on Titanic. He hates his suicide attempt, he hates ice fishing in Snowdon, that dinner party, and that iceberg.

Although whether staring blankly into nothingness and eating nothing counted as mourning or not, he had no idea.

He has gone over Carpathia five times. All the ship's officers know him as that "John Watson" man. His mind is now set completely on revenge, revenge against Victor Trevor.

The survivors disembark Carpathia at the Cunard pier. Over 30,000 people line the dock and fill the surrounding streets. The magnesium flashes of the photographers go off like small bombs, lighting an amazing tableau. Several hundred police keep the mob back. The dock is packed with friends and relatives, officials, ambulances, and the press reporters and photographers swarm everywhere, at the foot of the gangways, lining the tops of cars and trucks, it is the 1912 equivalent of a media circus. They jostle to get close to the survivors, tugging on them as they pass and shouting over each other to ask them questions.

Sherlock is covered with a woollen blanket and walking with a group of steerage passengers. Immigration officers are asking them questions as they come off the gangway.

"Can I take your name, lad?"

Sherlock turns to him, and at the clipboard. He is just about to say 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes' but he stops, and looks into the young immigration officer's eyes. That was the name of a suicidal Omega a lifetime ago. 'Sherlock Holmes' is the name John knows his Omega by, and only he is allowed that. Was allowed that. No one else.

"Basil," he whispers the first thing that comes to his mind, "Charles John Basil."

John always saw him as independent. And he was. All in but one way. The Bond wasn't broken, and if he was to remain tied to a dead man, so be it. He will do all the things John wanted him to. He will go to a university.

He would be Charles John Basil, the Beta, not Sherlock Holmes, the Omega.

The officer steers him toward a holding area for processing. Sherlock walks forward with the dazed immigrants. The exposure of photographer's magnesium flashes cause them to flinch, and the glare is blinding. There is a sudden disturbance near him as two men burst through the cordon, running to embrace an older woman along the survivors, who cries out with joy. The reporters converge on this emotional scene, and more flashes explode.

Sherlock uses this moment to slip away into the crowd. He pushes through the jostling people, moving with purpose, and none challenge him in the confusion. The photographers' flashes go off like a battle behind him.

Alone is what he has now. Alone will always protect him.

The inquiries into the disaster begins the next day in Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, New York, the hotel which was previously owned by John Jacob Astor and his cousin William Waldorf Astor. Sherlock goes to the first three proceedings, although he doesn't know why. He watches Mr. Ismay and the Captain of RMS Carpathia appearing in the witness box. He watches the inventor Guglielmo Marconi and Titanic's officer Lightoller give their statements. He sees Victor give his statement and his affidavit. He sees Mycroft give his statement, and sitting with Andrea and Mrs. Hudson at quite a distance from the Trevor family. The inquiry shifts to Washington D.C. He has little money, all those that were his savings. He stays in a small motel, thinking his future, about his university plans when it arrives.

A telegram. Like a miracle, like the Star of Bethlehem. Sherlock doesn't know how it reached him, but it was addressed to Charles John Basil.

Asking him to appear in the inquiry into Titanic's disaster in Washington D.C. Sherlock sucks in a breath, his anger returning to him in full measure. He wires back to them, that he'll appear. Against Victor Trevor. He'll ruin him for everything he has done to him. He'll destroy him for everything he has done to John.

* * *

"After the recess," he hears Senator Smith's voice, "I should like to have Mr. Basil appear before us for a few minutes."

Sherlock grits his teeth; he has been sitting there since ten-thirty in the morning, reading a cheap organic chemistry journal that he has managed to scavenge from near the university campus. He has gone over it three times. He hasn't bothered to disguise himself. He knows that after today, he will not need to hide anymore, except the Beta scent and the suppressors that he prepares in the university lab whenever he can sneak inside. He knows that after today, he'll return to London, and stay there. Forever.

He doesn't know that the few minutes will be a gross understatement. He is sworn by Senator Smith and then the inquiry starts.

"First state your full name, please?"

"Charles John Basil."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen-and-a-half on June sixth," he looks around at the hall. Victor and Mycroft have recognised him, their faces struck with horror and amazement respectively as Mycroft realises what he is about to do.

"Did you sail on the Titanic?"

Sherlock grits his teeth. Why the hell would he be sent a telegram if his name wasn't.... yes, of course, his name wasn't there on the boarding passengers' list.

"Yes."

"From what port?"

Sherlock decides that he could admire this man. He did know how to handle an inquiry properly.

"Southampton."

Senator Smith looks down at the paper in front of him, "I wish you would tell the committee why your name isn't there on the passenger list."

Sherlock swallows before continuing, looking straight into Victor's eyes with the promise of utter destruction in his, "Basil isn't my real name, Your Honor. I was on the run from someone who threatened to destroy my life and almost succeeded in doing so. But we're here for the inquiry for Titanic, aren't we?"

Senator Smith looks appalled at the impertinent manner of the young Beta, and then gives a small cough, "Under what name did you board the RMS Titanic?"

"Holmes. William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Can you name anyone who can testify to that?"

He looks at Mycroft again, who gives him a small nod, "Yes, my brother, Mycroft Holmes, who is present in this hall at this very moment."

"I will now ask Mr. Mycroft Holmes to come forward and take the stand."

He watches his brother's haunted eyes as he is sworn to the chairman.

"Mr. Holmes," says Senator Smith, riffling through the pages of writing which recorded Mycroft's testimony, "you had said that your brother, William Holmes, had perished with the ship."

"I believed so, Your Honor," says he, his eyes still on his brother, on his rough, unkempt figure, "I had asked Carpathia's crew for him, but they all replied in negative."

"Is this your brother, then?"

"He is."

"That is all. Thank you very much."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Sherlock watches his brother resume his place beside Andrea, revelling in the surprise that he has caused him.

"Mr. Holmes-"

"Basil," Sherlock insists.

"Mr. Basil, will you kindly tell the Committee the circumstances surrounding your voyage, and, as succinctly as possible, beginning with your going aboard the vessel at Southampton, your place on the ship on the voyage, together with any circumstances you feel would be helpful to us in this inquiry?"

"I certainly will."

"I understand that you were a First Class passenger?"

"Yes."

"In what part of the ship were your quarters?"

"My quarters were on B deck. I was in B-52 with my... ex-fiancé, Mr. Trevor."

Senator Smith frowns, as if wanting to ask if Sherlock if he were an Omega, but he feels that it is unnecessary, given the nature of the inquiry, "I wish you would tell the committee about-"

"Yes, I would," he overrides the senator impatiently, "I boarded the RMS Titanic on the 10th of April along with my brother, his secretary and our housekeeper. Victor Trevor and his manservant also accompanied us. It was about 11:35 when we boarded the ship. We had our tickets on Mauretania, but Victor changed our reservations at the last moment."

"So, you weren't a voluntary passenger on the Titanic?" he asks Sherlock, still shrouded in mystery about what might have happened that led Sherlock to change his name within a week of the sinking.

"In a manner of speaking, no. I didn't wish to go on at all. I was forced to go aboard, just like I was forced into a marriage in which I had no say, just like Victor Trevor forced me into bed even when I didn't want to be."

The hall lets out an appalled gasp at that as Sherlock triumphantly watches Victor sink lower into his chair, trying to deflect Sherlock's master blow to his reputation.

"Mr. Basil, that is a matter for the law court. I wish you to stick to what exactly happened on the day of the sinking."

Sherlock doesn't counter with anything else. He knows that the press will carry his news and eventually destroy Victor Trevor. He knows what sort of a woman Molly Brown is, and that if she heard of it, she would surely write about it. The feminist in her would never remain subdued.

"Of course."

"Go ahead and tell-"

He overrides Senator Smith again, "On 14th April, Mr. Thomas Andrews, the ship's architect led us on a tour of the ship. We were informed of the severe shortage of lifeboats and of the fact that the crew hadn't had a proper drill with the davits."

"Will you tell us what he exactly said?"

"I'm unable to quote him word to word, but he did say that the lifeboats could carry only half the people. He explained to me that by the maritime laws, the White Star Line did provide more lifeboat accommodation than was required by the laws."

"Those were his words?"

"More or less, yes. He also informed me about the various other safety precautions that had been planned by him, but he had been overruled."

"Overruled? Did he mention any name?"

Sherlock thinks hard whether he should answer that, "No, Your Honor. All he told me was that he had suggested that the watertight bulkheads be extended till B Deck instead of E Deck."

"Are you sure about this?"

Sherlock throws him a death glare, "Of course."

"Please proceed."

"We were also given a tour of the enclosed wheelhouse. During the tour, one of the operators came to deliver to Captain Smith an ice warning."

"Ice warning?"

"A Marconigram, to be precise, from the 'Baltic'."

"Do you remember the operator, who he might be?"

"I think that the Captain called him Bride."

"What action did the Captain take then?"

"He took it from him, glanced at it, and put it back in his pocket, and told us that we had nothing to worry about, and that we were speeding up. Mr-"

"Are those his words, Mr. Basil?"

Sherlock looks at him, very annoyed at having being interrupted, "Yes. He said that he had just ordered the last boilers lit."

"Did I understand you to say that she was speeding up on the day of the sinking?"

"That's for you to decide."

Senator Smith looks outraged, and Sherlock hastens to correct himself, hearing John's imaginary voice telling him about manners, "Yes, Your Honor."

"Was the Captain, by any chance, intoxicated during the dusk when he said that to you?"

"It didn't appear such."

"You said Mr. Andrews was also there with you?"

"Yes."

"What action did he take?"

"He had a word with the Captain. I do not know what happened after that."

"Please proceed."

"I spent the entire evening in the company of...." Sherlock stops for a second, because his entire evening revolves around John after that. He wants to tell the world how John saved him from all that he was getting sucked into. John deserves to be immortalized, not just remain a figment of his memory. But in the end, it makes him feel even more hollow than ever, "my friend, until we saw the iceberg strike the ship at about eleven-forty."

"You _saw_ the iceberg?" He asks him incredulously.

"Yes. We were at the well deck, when we felt a shudder run through the ship, and we saw the iceberg sail right past the ship."

"What did you do then?"

"We stayed on the boat deck for some time, and then while going up, we heard Mr. Andrews and the Captain talking about the checking the ship's damage."

"Can you recall the details of the conversation that you caught?"

"They were talking about pumps. That's all I could gather."

"After that?"

"Victor got my... friend arrested on false accusations so that he could claim me without my wishes again. My brother drove him away, and then a steward appeared and asked us to put on the lifebelts, saying that it was Captain's orders.

"We waited near the Grand Staircase and then we were whisked to the port side, where Mr. Lightoller was filling the boats according to the Omegas, women and children only policy. My brother's secretary got on, our housekeeper and Mrs. Margaret Brown got on, but I stayed behind to find my companion, who was in the Master-at-Arms' cabin on E Deck."

"Women and children _only_ ? Not _first_?"

"Yes. Not first. He might have misunderstood the Captain's orders."

Ignoring Sherlock's suggestion, Smith continues, "Am I to understand that the arrest of your unnamed companion was made after the ice had struck?"

"Yes."

"How was the scene on the boat deck?"

"There was no organisation whatsoever. Most of the Alphas allowed their Omegas and their wives to board the boats calmly, with no sense of the disaster at all."

"Please proceed."

"There were a lot of steerage people there that were getting on one of these cranes that they had on deck. They can lift about two and a half tons, I believe. These steerage passengers were crawling along on this, over the railing, and away up to the boat deck. A lot of them were doing that."

"They could not get up there in any other way?"

"The gates were shut. We couldn't go out."

"Was it locked?"

"Yes. The stewards were not allowing us to go up to the boat deck. The crewmen down there were pushing them back, shoving and punching them. One of them even pointed a smallish revolver at the crowd."

"Revolver?"

"Yes, they did, believing that they had an angry mob.

"Then we uprooted a bench and pushed it through the collapsible gate, and we were finally escorted to the boat deck, starboard side. There we were reunited with my brother, and I forced my companion to get on a boat. Subsequently, Victor Trevor joined us as I watched my companion go down. He told us that he had an arrangement with a ship's officer."

"Arrangement?" The chairman asks a little too sharply than he intends to, "Can you expand on that?"

"I should imagine something to do with bribing an officer of the ship."

Sherlock inwardly enjoys the plethora of accusing glares shooting towards Victor. The latter says nothing, knowing that he'd be immediately overruled. Senator Smith nods at him, asking him to get on with his testimony.

"Can you recall the name of the Officer?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. He didn't say anything apart from that."

"Please continue."

"I think my companion knew about the vile deed that Victor had attempted on me, and so he climbed out of the lifeboat and scrambled towards me. Victor attempted to shoot us with his revolver after that, but his efforts were only successful in driving us back to E Deck. He also sent his manservant after us, but we somehow managed reach aft through the First Class Smoking Room. Mr. Andrews was there, and he told us that he was going to go down with the ship. We tried to talk him out of it, but he simply gave us his lifebelt and wished us good luck.

"We somehow got on to the boat deck, but all the boats had gone by then, and the remaining Collapsibles were overturned in the sea. So we could see the water coming up, the bow of the ship was going down, and there was an explosion. We couldn't have got off, because the suction would pull us down anyway. So, we remained on the ship, and we made it to the base of the flagpole at the stern.

"The deck raised up and became so steep that the people could not stand on their feet on the deck. So they fell down and slid on the deck into the water right on the ship. And then, the ship plummeted back into position, and began sinking more rapidly as she became completely vertical. The lights had already gone out.

"We had to jump, and we were pulled underwater initially, but then I managed to rise, whereas my companion... he got lost. I couldn't find him again. I managed with the cold somehow, because I had had a considerable amount of brandy. I was trying to swim," Sherlock feels an overwhelming string of words coming from during the period of anguish and terror that he has felt, "and then  there was a man - lots of them were floating around - and he got me on the neck and pressed me under, senselessly trying to get on top of me."

The hall is filled with silence as they listen to the nail-biting and horrifying experience that Sherlock has gone through during the sinking. Mycroft hasn't changed his position since the last time Sherlock has set his eyes upon him.

"This companion of yours-?"

"He was a Third Class passenger, and the bravest and the kindest and the most honourable Alpha I've ever had the good fortune to meet," Sherlock finds himself defending John's memories before the chairman can finish his question.

The Senator seems to understand, and says in a gentler tone, "Please continue."

"I searched for him throughout the night, throughout the icy water. I got on a engraved door that I used a raft. Officer Wilde was there with me, and he was blowing his whistle, calling out to the boats. Fifteen hundred people went into the sea when Titanic sank from under us. Many of them were women and children. There were twenty boats floating nearby and only one came back. Six were saved from the water, myself included. Six out of fifteen hundred.

"Afterwards, the seven hundred people in the boats had nothing to do but wait... wait to die, wait to live."

"Who was in charge of your boat?"

"Officer Lowe, to my best knowledge, and a steward whom I didn't know, along with a fireman and a First Class passenger. We were rescued by Carpathia by about quarter past seven. Then we were helped aboard Carpathia by Officer Lowe."

"Did you see any icebergs on that morning?"

"I saw three big ones. They were quite far away."

"I want to direct your attention again to the steerage," asks Senator Smith, "Do you think the passengers in the steerage and in the bow of the boat had an opportunity to get out and up on the decks, or were they held back?"

"Like I said, we had to break some of the gates to gain access to the upper parts of the ship."

"You said that a number of them climbed up-?"

"That was on the top, on the deck; after they got on the deck," Sherlock snarls at his stupidity, "That was in order to get up on this boat deck."

"Onto the top deck?"

He tries his best not to roll his eyes, "Onto the top deck; yes."

"Do you think the steerage passengers in your part of the ship all got out?"

"Of course not. I already told you, we were held down."

"Did that part of the ship fill rapidly with water?"

"Yes, the rate trebled as the time passed."

"That is all. We are very much obliged to you."

* * *

During the next recess, Sherlock comes out of the hall and tries to walk out of there fast, but Victor catches hold of his arm, and spins him towards him angrily. Sherlock tries to push him away, but he finds that he cannot. Victor is still too strong for him.

"What did I ever do to you?" He snarls in his face, "How dare you appear against me, and lie away like that?!"

"I lied?! Did you not try to rape me?"

Victor catches hold of his arm again, "No! Because you were my Omega, and I could do anything that I could please-"

But all his vehemence is lost as the press and the reporters crash upon him, wanting to confirm what they have heard inside. Sherlock resists the temptation to throw him a smirk, and walks away before Victor and Mycroft can catch up with him. He has had his revenge at last: shaming Victor in public. He is finally free.

As he turns around the alley, he knows that someone is following him. He turns around to see a tall, broad shouldered figure walk past him to the next alley. Sherlock hurries up after him, but the man is gone. He suddenly gets the ominous feeling that it isn't the end of his adventures.

\---

**End of Part I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the characters in the work except for Sherlock's cast were real people on Titanic. Well... maybe except for some two or three Third Class passengers. Anyway, I salute them all.
> 
> My homage especially to Thomas Andrews for being the most heroic of men and for not losing it at the hour of need, to the Countess of Rothes and Molly Brown and the rest of the crew, especially Wallace Hartley and the band who played till the end and all the officers aboard the ship. And also to Benjamin Guggenheim, J.J. Astor, Daniel Marvin and several others who gave up their lives trying to save their wives and children. And last but not the least, to the crew of Carpathia.
> 
> And of course, to all the youths who gave up their lives fighting the WWI and the fathers and mothers who singlehandedly ran their families during this horrific time (It's the hundredth anniversary of the war this year, if you've noticed).


	20. Moving On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have any of you noticed that in this fic, we had been stuck over the date 14th April for over nine-and-a-half chapters? I know. So here's some speed covering the next nine-and-a-half months in this chapter.

**Part II: The Life Of An Omega Widow**

\---

12th May, 1912

Sherlock sets out when no one has yet woken up, whilst other thoughts still occupying the back of his mind, but he has to go over to Gusteau's. They had provided him with a rather interesting case of the missing tea cup.

The Gusteau's were immigrants from France, who had helped Sherlock once by giving him a room to stay in when he had first arrived in New York City, just before he had arranged for a proper motel room, thinking of him as a fellow Frenchman. They told him about an incident that had been happening to them since Christmas. During the holiday season, they had bought a tea-set. Often, after a week, one of the tea cups would disappear from their kitchen set. They got another one, and the same thing happened after another week. It seemed like an innocent accident, until Sherlock decided to experiment, and gift them another tea set, and the same thing happened again. He plans to go over to them, to tell them about the perpetrator who was carrying out this atrocious task.

His eyes fall on the newspaper vendor, and he goes over to them and picks one up. He goes through it, and then frowns at the headline of one article:

**_Californian Gold Tycoon gives up estate._ **

Extremely interested, he takes it, pays the vendor, and goes to a corner to read it...

And this is what he basically makes out.

Victor Trevor lost his social status, after having faced social exclusion, especially after Sherlock's, and that of Officer Lowe's statement, who told the Committee that he had got aboard the Collapsible A by concealing himself under a woman's shawl. Meanwhile, in Denver, Margaret Brown, now dubbed the 'Unsinkable Molly Brown', expressed her anger via various tabloids and other national daily newspapers, making a mention of Victor's disreputable behaviour in some of her articles. Very few women and Omegas had been asked to appear in the American inquiry into the disaster. Sherlock merely owes his quick thinking a thanks that he registered himself as a Beta, otherwise that telegram would never have reached him.

He wraps the newspaper up, and deposits it in his pocket, jubilation in his veins, and proceeds forward, towards his destination. Feeling his stomach grumbling, he settles down on the foot of some stairs, his mind marvelling at his unprecedented hunger. He had planned on devouring the lunch in his coat during midday, trusting his almost non-existent appetite, but he opens the loaf of bread anyway and coats it with some jam, and silently consumes it, while running his eyes around himself, thinking about how he has reached here.

It all started a week after the verdict of the inquiry. Sherlock hadn't been able to shake off the feeling that someone was following him since that day. There are only two people who fit the profile of tall, broad shouldered, in the list of those who knew Sherlock: Victor and Mycroft. There were many aboard Titanic, but why would they come after him?

Nevertheless, Sherlock lets it spin in his mind, in the back. It could have just been someone else, but it's menacing and he can't deny the feeling.

He stands after having finished his meagre breakfast, and proceeds towards his destination. He wanders down the main street, sparsely populated at this time in the morning, with only a hardware shop, a barber's shop and a couple of general stores opening up. Many of the diners and restaurants are still closed, following the waiters' strike. Knowing that there is a presence behind him, going by the distinctive smell of the Alpha reaching him with almost the same intensity every moment, he ducks into a corner, and waits until the Alpha appears and he manages to corner him, the man who has been following him for the last week.

But this time, it's not the same person, it's a different man, shorter than the previous one, yet taller than himself, and extremely thin. Sherlock is just thankful that he smells like a Beta, otherwise the Alpha would not have looked at him with his wide, frightened eyes. He would have taken him apart then and there.

"Tell me what you want or I'll run this into you!" says he, brandishing his knife, and sticking it against the frightened Alpha's throat, against his Adam's apple. And before he can react to the sudden presence of movement behind him, white cotton is pressed to his nostrils. He tries not to breathe, knowing because his extremely limited knowledge tells him that the substance is a sedative. He feels the knife slipping from his fingers, and the cruel faces of two Alphas looking down at him, as the ground rises to meet him face first...

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," says the other Alpha, and it's all Sherlock can make out, "We meet again... only this time, I'm in a more advantageous position than yourself..."

* * *

When Sherlock wakes up from oblivion, several hours have passed, if he has to go by the strength of the dose administered to him. And worse, it must have knocked him out for more than five hours, since all traces of the Beta scent have vanished, like it was never there. It has been one day into his Heat, and he's thankful to the Bond that the Estrus cycle is not as intense as it was during his first time with John. Nevertheless, it's enough to drive any Alpha crazy with hormone-fuelled lust.

And then, to his mingling realisation and horror, he discovers that he is unclothed, and his hands and feet and his chest are bound to a chair with the strongest of ropes. And he senses the presence of an unfamiliar Alpha, a scent he has never encountered before, not Victor, not John, and certainly not Mycroft.

He looks around him, around the Alpha leering at him. The place is fully locked and garrisoned, and probably abandoned for quite a distance. His clothes are nowhere, and escape is almost impossible.

"Such a pretty little Omega," he hears a deep guttural voice drawl in admiration, "I'll enjoy taking you one by one."

And before he can peek through his half-closed eyes, he suddenly feels excruciating amounts of pain in the breach in his perineum, leaking with desire in response to the Alpha's pheromones flooding the whole small room. The Alpha comes closer to him, and Sherlock tries to turn away, while trying to contract into one small ball, anything to hide his nudity from him. It's only moments till he feels his filthy, repulsive tongue travelling up and down his neck, and slowly stopping at the mark John has made on him. Sherlock tries to push him away, only to gasp in pleasure as the Alpha takes his flesh between his teeth.

Another memory flashes through him. The feeling of John's fearlessly direct eyes on his as he took the flesh on his palm between his teeth. John's eyes as he kissed away the post-orgasm haze, murmuring words of love and companionship into his ears...

"You like that?!" comes his throaty mocking voice sharply as he runs his gaze all over Sherlock's body so intense that he feels as if it is sweeping through him, "You little whore..." And without warning, his fingers travel downwards and he palms his crotch clumsily.

"No," Sherlock tries to breath out, only to feel the man untying his ropes, only to see his eyes hazy with animalistic lust. He tries to think, but his own biology is against it, aching to be touched having deprived himself for days into his continuous Heats. And John's memories, thinking that the man is John, is not helping at all.

But he is nothing like John. John treated him with reverence, his hands on him were gentle and loving, and not voracious and groping like this Alpha's are, nowhere as dirty, as filthy...

As soon as Sherlock is free from his bindings, he pushes the man away with surprising amount of strength, and takes the chair and crashes it upon him. Grabbing the man's trousers as quickly as he can, he tries to break the door open, only to feel the Alpha's hands grab his legs cruelly and tackle him down on the ground, pinning his arms down as Sherlock tries to squirm helplessly.

"P-Please," he tries a last resort, although knowing that nothing in the world is going to stop the Alpha on top of him from taking him on all fours, "I'm already Bon-"

The Alpha simply shuts him up with a tight, hard slap across his cheek. Sherlock feels dazed as the sting knocks him out for some time, as the world blurs around the corners of his vision. The man takes advantage of the situation, and swoops down to capture his mouth in a dirty slurp, making Sherlock try to back away from the appalling halitosis of his breath, "I'll definitely enjoy taking you," says he, stroking his cheeks like he owns him, "Lie back," says he patronisingly, "you'll love it."

With that, he ties Sherlock's arms with his belt, and removes his trousers and his own boxers, sinking into him before Sherlock can even estimate the terrifying size of the prick entering him. All he feels is the clumsy assault of the Alpha's hipbones into his, as the man shoves a rough hand on his mouth, feeling his muffled screams vibrate through his skin, as if loving the sensation of smothering him very much.

"I wouldn't mind at all if you scream-" his words are lost as Sherlock knees him in the side, and tears a grunt of pain out of the Alpha's throat. With two more hard slaps, Sherlock lies helpless at the unforgivable assault on him as the Alpha keeps thrusting into him, taking in the scent of his body as it saturates the whole room.

"Yesss... No - " Sherlock hisses through the ball of cloth, while his own body, his own hormones betray him into blocking the excruciating pain and trying to steer him towards bliss.

"You're beautiful," he whispers wantonly as blood flows freely from Sherlock's nose and the side of his mouth, whimpering at his touch, a tiny part of his Omega biology wanting more of him inside him and refraining from telling him that as he gags on the cloth thrust into his mouth. The Alpha seems nowhere close as he continues plunging into him relentlessly, while removing the ball of cloth drenched with the saliva from his mouth.

"Scream all you like," his words come in shuddery gasps as he feels Sherlock's muscles clenching around him, "I want to _hear_ you, lovely."

"J - John," Sherlock rasps, while the pain blinds him and he throws his head back, a revolting mixture of pleasure and pain. The Alpha takes the opportunity and looms all over him, sinking his teeth in his flesh mercilessly, drowning himself in his scent as he rocks in and out of him senselessly, "Hmm... I'll have to change my name to John now."

The words make him come back to his senses as Sherlock resumes his futile struggles against this tall and graceless Alpha, while trying anything not to think about John and how turned on he is as a result of the Alpha lapping on his swollen nipples. How dare he take John's name on his filthy breath? He takes the hard sensitive nub between his teeth and gives it a painful tug. Any attempt to shove him off him serve to only increase the pain further levels up, nevertheless he moans, only for the sound to be swallowed by the capture of his lower lip by the man's teeth, oblivious to his agony, as his fingers grope for his erection painfully.

"Ah - oh Lord, no... p - please..."

He sinks his nails deep into the flesh of the Alpha's torso as he shudders involuntarily, feeling the earth under him positively quake as comes hard, spilling his semen all over the Alpha's stomach. Sherlock simply arches his back in response, trying to bite back a traitorous moan as he feels the Alpha smile against his lips, and suddenly he feels a sudden pain erupting in his hole, worse than he has ever felt in his life. A second later, the Alpha tears his enormous prick out of him and moans in pleasure, while inserting it into Sherlock's mouth, making him gag as the head of his prick hits the back of his throat, making him swallow his ejaculate as most of it dribbles out of his helpless mouth. He tries to bite it as hard as he can, making the Alpha cringe almost instantly, only to be followed by a burst of pain burning in the right side of his face.

It was worse than the worst experience Sherlock has ever had in his seventeen year old life as he lies there, senseless to the blinding pain in his tattered hole, and before he can respond, a pair of working-class clothes are shoved in his direction. He hastily manages to put them on in an attempt to save whatever remains of his modesty, and is tied back to the chair with another strong dose of chloroform. Tears of pain streak down his cheeks as he throws his neck back, sobbing quietly into nothingness as he looks away from his assaulter, wondering what he has ever done to suffer such brutality.

His only thoughts return to the one man who had saved him, only for a life worse than the worst he could have led. He wonders how long it will be before he joins him in afterlife. For the sake of joining him, he tries to believe that there is an afterlife indeed, but his mind is far too logical.

"Boss gonna be here in two hours. Make sure you don't look like you've been screwed," is all Sherlock can make out.

As the Alpha exits, Sherlock succumbs to tears for the first time in his life. He has never cried out of a sentiment born out of subjection, not even when he understood that he was being forced into matrimony with Victor Trevor, not even when it was revealed to him at the last moment that they were leaving London behind forever, not even when he had discovered that John was no more. Only once he has cried, and those were only tears of anger when he tried to jump off the Titanic, but they were not of submission. He has always disliked his fellow Omegas for their snivelling, weak nature. He has always associating crying with weakness and submission and hence he has always tried to keep the treacherous tears in his eyes, but for the first time in his life, he sinks his chin to his chest and cries silently, in a gross mingling of physical and emotional pain, along with self-pity and helplessness.

He thinks of flying, whereas in reality he has sunk in a pit, in a cycle of poverty and evil too deep to escape from.

* * *

It's not until three hours when Sherlock's eyes snap open again. He is still in the same room, with that same Alpha who now gazes down at him with casual disinterest, his eyes nothing like they were when they were clouded with pure physical lust. Every inch of his body hurts, especially his deflated prick and the adulterous breach in his perineum. He sees his fingers shaking uncontrollably, and he tries to regain control of them while trying to understand what was going on. Were these Victor's men? Unlikely. Victor had sold out, and was now as useless as a used piece of tissue paper. And they were certainly not Mycroft's men. Mycroft would never hire people when it came to Sherlock, and besides he was almost unknown in New York City except for the Gusteau's, but even they thought that Charles John Basil was a Beta, and Sherlock's name had not been published in the newspapers in those articles which brought Victor's whole life tumbling down.

So who would want him? And moreover, a person with resources. Mycroft's enemies? Most probable.

The door opens and a familiar figure walks in: tall, and broad-shouldered, murmuring something to the Alpha who had used him most cruelly. The taller Alpha shakes his head disdainfully and turns around. Sherlock stares into his face disbelievingly. Why would he want anything from him? Because he most certainly wasn't here for Mycroft. He was never an enemy of Mycroft. But he was his, indeed. But such a pathetic drive as revenge from a man only obsessed with monetary wealth? Hardly.

Sherlock recognises the Alpha as he steps out into the light, even without the beard which he had during his time aboard Titanic. He recognises his faint but strong, dominant and absolutely delicious Alpha scent, much to his horror.

Colonel Moran.

The man who had been pursuing him, going by how similar the body structure was.

Sherlock tries to straighten up. Apart from those people whom he can cut out of his life whenever he wants, this is the one person he knows he might not be able to. He has already had reason to suspect that the Colonel is not just a common criminal, going by the complexity of the plan he has devised, and the nature of his belongings in his suite, and also the manner in which he has managed to lay the suspicion off him so very well. He must be a sophisticated man, and Sherlock is at a loss to understand how such a refined Alpha was doing in a desolate place like the one they were surrounded by.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," his voice feels like barbed silk to Sherlock's ears, rich and vicious at the same time, just like he remembers them to be, "We meet again."

Sherlock eyes him suspiciously. His accent has changed from English to an American too fast for it to be natural. Nothing else has changed of him since the disaster, not even his face or his composure.

"Apologies for any inconvenience on Mr. Hunter's part," he indicates to the Alpha, who stares at him weirdly, "I shall see to it that he receives his punishment he deserves."

He clears his throat, and two other Alphas come and drag the protesting Alpha out of there.

"You shoulda tol' me that he was a bleedin' Omega in Heat!"

"My apologies if my... hospitality went a little awry," says he, trying to sound kind. Sherlock has no strength left in his lifeless form, not after that demeaning act upon him. He knows what is going to happen next. He will be forced to shed his clothes off again, and Colonel Moran would take him even worse than the previous Alpha did. But the Colonel shows no such interest in him. He simply waits patiently for a reply, and when it doesn't come, he continues.

"You're mistaken," exclaims Moran out of the blue. Sherlock cannot look at him in surprise, "You're mistaken if you think that I am going to knot you, Mr. Holmes. You see, I am already bound to an Omega. Your pheromones fail to entice me."

Sherlock barely manages a "hmm" before some water is forced down his parched throat. He laps greedily at the fluid, and then chokes as a result of his own enthusiasm, before coughing to speak again.

"So, you managed to avoid arrest after all."

"Oh, yes," Moran smiles, "That. The report went down with the ship, as did the master-at-arms. I don't see your... Alpha companion around you," he glanced around him, "Did he go down with the ship too?"

Sherlock tries not to react in anyway, not to give him the satisfaction, but he continues anyway, "I read the report, the American inquiry into Titanic's disaster, you know. You have my deepest condolences."

He lies back in his chair, his body still limp from the mindless assault, "So, all this for a revenge?"

Moran scowls, "Oh, no. Not at all. I don't do such mindless things as revenge. I'm here for a proposition. Always wasted away as an Omega," he tutts, "I have some work for yourself and such that your brain might care to indulge in."

"What makes you think that I'll help you?" he growls helplessly, knowing the outrageous position in which his life lies now.

"I secure your life and your gender? I can have Mr. Hunter killed for the unfortunate knowledge he has gained," he offers with a pleasant, hateful smile on his face, "Or I can send you back to Mr. Victor Trevor. I still have your wedding invitation, you see.

"This is what happens to an Omega when he goes out of line," the Colonel continues, inspecting his nails carefully, "Whether you like it or not, an Omega always needs a protector. That is why the concept of Bond was introduced into our species, my dear sir... However I'm being lenient, because I have a respect for your brains."

Sherlock knows that there's no other option. As soon as he gets free from this man, he has to escape, "What's your proposition?"

* * *

10th August, 1912

"What have you to tell me?" Sherlock demands, slamming the table in front of him to prove his point, "Tell me."

"No," Moran declares, glaring into his pocket-watch, "I have a sort of an errand to run. Try not to succumb to the temptation of following me around, Mr. Holmes. You won't like it once it becomes a habit."

Nevertheless, ignoring the thoughts at the back of his mind, he retreats back into his chair. Sherlock thinks, because all he can do is think, how to get out of the trap he has got into. He is not willing to go for murder. He is not willing to blacken his soul with so unspeakable a deed. But as days turn into months, and as daylight turns into night, he begins to see that he has no other option. He has to destroy Colonel Moran, implicate him somehow in the crimes which he orders around. Sherlock is aware that Colonel Moran is not the centre of the web of crime that has the five eastern states of New York, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island and New Jersey under its control. It's someone else, someone higher up.

Sherlock is now an important member of the circle, indispensible for the implementation of the most random of crimes as he tries to break out of there, out of the spiral he is slowly getting sucked into. Almost a month before he had been forced down another pit he has no desire to be. He has abandoned his university plans for the time being, following the Colonel's agitation, and his movements.

The Colonel believes that Sherlock is his right hand man. Sherlock believes otherwise, but the Colonel's methods are so clean and well-organised that Sherlock cannot find a single thread of doubt in them, and considering the well-spread idiocy of the common man, the dubious clues and the reasoning is not good enough for the pathetic institution that was the New York City Police, he tries his best, even suggests plans that appeal to the Colonel and in which Sherlock makes deliberate slips in order for the police to catch up. But always, even though the agent is caught, and presented in the court for questioning, he is always bailed out of there nevertheless and Sherlock's plans go unfulfilled.

And Sherlock cannot help but admire the man higher up in the network. The horror at the crimes is matched only by his admiration at the skill it takes to accomplish them.

Moran exits, and Sherlock's deputy enters, looking ashen faced. Sherlock had once spared his life and gained him admittance into the circle only for self-preservation and his family. He knows just where to spot loyalty.

"Welche Informationen haben Sie bekommen?" says he to the Beta. _What information have you received?_

It has been three months since the inquiry into Titanic's disaster, three months since Sherlock played his first deadly blow to Victor Trevor, since he set in motion the chain of events that were set to destroy the Alpha who ruined him and John. Sherlock sits back against his chair, contracting his fingers and then loosening them, tapping them against the table, as his informant sits across the table in front of him, trying his best not to cower at the intimidating glare that Sherlock bestows upon him.

"Colonel Moran... er wird nach St. Petersburg reisen, Sir..." _Colonel Moran... he's set for St. Petersburg, sir..._

Sherlock frowns, but it isn't visible to the man in front of him, not because of the shadows playing across his face.

St. Petersburg, he contemplates.... why would Colonel leave for Russia? Perhaps some peace treaty. Newspapers cannot be trusted for accurate information anymore. Secret treaties were being signed all over Europe, followed by a series of bombings over the Continent, all indicative of war hanging over them.

Sherlock stands, and gulps the water down his throat, followed by one of those small soluble pills. He has worked the suppressor enzyme for Omega scent into them, after having worked out the composition and the structure of the major hormone, he had synthesised the complement structure to it, to be able to bind the hormone and suppress it. The Estrus cycles were getting more frequent, and much more troublesome. Still being bound to John, he has no choice but to spend his Heats in the confines of a single room, while every single nerve in his body ache for John's touch and long for his voice and the feeling of John inside him. Every time, Sherlock is transported back to that one night, in the cargo hold, where he lay in John's arms, under him, under his sweaty weight, and he closes his eyes, feeling John's fingers running over him, with the charcoal deposit in his fingers drawing lines over him, leaving fingerprints, promising a future together, only to be destroyed by ice...

He decides that he cannot allow for such distractions, not when they have no place in his life anymore, not when they fulfil no other purpose, other than helping him through his Heats. Hence the suppressors.

Thankful to whatever meagre education he had been blessed with in his younger days, Sherlock is sufficiently fluid in German.

"Von Trapp muss sich sofort nach St. Petersburg aufmachen. Es gibt nichts mehr in Paris. Währenddessen verfolgen Sie Colonel Morans Männer. Nehmt sie gefangen und verhört sie - " Sherlock instructs, before he is interrupted by Heilbronn, his German informant. _Von Trapp must leave for St. Petersburg immediately. There is nothing more in Paris. Meanwhile pursue Colonel Moran's men. Capture them and question them-_

Von Trapp is another of Colonel Moran's men, a secret agent acting under his orders, and the one Sherlock uses without anyone else's knowledge for his own purposes to destroy the man who has had bound him in chains. He is not a man meant to sit behind a desk and just plan things. He is a free man, Omega or not, and the only bond he allows is his link to his dead Alpha.

"Sie haben eine Nachricht von Von Trapp." _You have a message from Von Trapp._

Sherlock quirks his eyebrow, "Was?" _What?_

He hands him a slip of paper. Sherlock dismisses the man, and settles against the desk to decode it. After a couple of minutes, it reads in German:

_Meeting in Paris. French and Russian generals. French PM on his way to the Tsar and Russian Foreign minister. Meeting in St. Petersburg._

Sherlock slams the paper against the desk. Colonel Moran was always one step ahead of him. So that's why he was going to St. Petersburg. An assassination on its way. Russia had already entered into an alliance with France following the war. Britain was already allies with France, all against Germany. Any death in the meeting will trigger Russia breaking the alliance off from them, and joining forces with Germany instead. They would go over for a series of annexations, particularly France, which lies in the immediate neighbourhood, and finally Britain, leading to a European War.

Why would they want war to come up? Sherlock knows that Colonel Moran has never done anything for any other motive except money. What could one gain from war, except the loss of a hundred able-bodied men?

He looks at his reflection in the mirror. His face has become more gaunt, and his cheekbones have become more prominent. His eyes have sunken in, having lost that faraway, introspective look. There was a time when he used to pose in front of Daniel Marvin's Biograph camera with John, John who pretended to be Sultan. There was a time when he used to play petty tricks on others, and tease his Alpha brother about his weight. There was a time when he was unafraid of standing at the bow rail, arms outstretched with John's arms around his waist, feeling invincible while he rested his head against John's shoulders and remember the feel of his lips against his, moving slowly, and then heating up, but yet, slow... like they had all the time in the world...

He was a child back then, he thinks with a bitter laugh. And he isn't fond of the process of growing up. But circumstances are forcing him to.

He burns the slip of paper in the fire, and proceeds to pour some wine for himself. One sip, and he spits the whole volume out of his mouth, decorating the wall with it. He stares at the wine, thoroughly disgusted, wondering how his taste preferences have abruptly changed.

He ignores it as he sets to code his message to send a hitman to counter Colonel Moran's men, should they attempt to wreak havoc on the peaceful meeting.

* * *

It's only during a futile chase across the city that Sherlock realises something's wrong with him. Staggeringly so.

One of Colonel's men had found out the truth about Heilbronn, Sherlock's informant. Sherlock had been chasing him down when he succumbs to the intense fatigue and sudden exhaustion. He slumps against the wall, unable to continue the pursuit anymore. He has always associated his exhaustion to the lack of proper food and he has always had cravings for certain kinds of food only, but when his head begins to spin and he pukes in the corner horribly, he understands that something is awfully wrong with him.

His body convulses as fresh vomit rises in his throat, and he bends down again.

Let him go to the Colonel, he reasons. He knows that the Colonel thinks that he has Sherlock at the gunpoint, and that Sherlock will not try any stunts. Weary with exhaustion, and trying to control the vomit, he hops into a taxicab, holding his stomach as it groans wearily.

When he gets to the motel, he realises what is wrong with him.

And that is why the Bond is still there. Sherlock had completely forgotten about it.

A last resort then, he decides, self-preservation being his only goal now.

* * *

The last blow to Victor Trevor came on September 2nd 1912, when Charles John Basil was found murdered in his suite in a motel in New York after an absence for a full month, all clues pointing to Victor Trevor's involvement in it, in an effort to silence him. He was defamed, shamed in public, demanded to be lynched for trying to Bond with an Omega without its wishes and that too before marriage, and finally, arranging the Omega's murder to silence him.

Unable to take social ostracism, he swallows a pistol a week later.

An Omega is extremely precious to the society, and although he is not given suffrage rights and other things as Alphas and Betas are entitled to, there are a lot of rules protecting the Omega's interests. An Omega is always given the best medical facilities, and hence faking his death became extremely difficult for Sherlock, since an Omega is not only protected by two families and its extremely possessive Alpha, but rare too. And Sherlock was not willing to murder another Omega for his selfish needs.

Thankful to the lack of scientific temper of the New York Police Department, it's easier because a post-mortem, however dubiously existent, is never performed on an Omega (another silly law, although practiced to a lesser extent in United States than the British Empire). Sherlock prepares the compounds released by the decaying flesh of an Omega, just strong enough to lay most of the Alphas off, and yet not strong enough to rouse suspicion. Then, after procuring the dead body of Hunter, the Alpha who had raped him and who was almost of Sherlock's stature, he flies from there, and to Illinois, where he has traced Colonel Moran's last known location.

But, after Colonel Moran's return to Chicago for a short time from St. Petersburg, Sherlock finds that he has departed yet again, this time for Switzerland.

Mycroft knows that his brother is still alive. He cannot have missed the clues that Sherlock had made up for the police to follow regarding his "death". His social status was in fact alleviated following Officer Lightoller's testimony, who said that Mr. Holmes the Elder had been helping all the Omegas and the women get aboard, and that he had been rescued from the waters. He finally finds his offices and turns his faculties towards the good of the American people.

But he still cannot find his little brother.

Sherlock settles peacefully in Chicago with the name John Altamont with a perfectly convincing Irish accent, smiling bitterly at the newspaper article in Daily Herald. Better than any poison or slitting Victor's throat while in sleep. He turns the page and finds himself staring at a collection of headlines, headlines that label Senator Smith as an opportunist, and articles that report the new marine safety regulations that are being implemented. He has forsaken the decision to enter university for some time, first when he found out that he indeed was pregnant, and the second and the more dangerous reason: war, in a couple of years. War that would be inevitable, and that'll destroy Europe like the East Wind, and will have serious repercussions on wherever Britannia's reach extended. He cannot go back to London. He has to stay in America till the conflicts end.

His fingers curl around his belly protectively as he sips hot tea. He will do anything to protect the little life inside him. It is all that he has of John.

It has been five months without John. Five months without his kind radiant smile and his strong arms around him, and the glint in his eyes whenever Sherlock cooked up some mischief.

The Bond takes time to dissolve, Sherlock knows. In most cases, the other mate dies too. In the rarest of the rare cases, usually between the older couples, it takes years. But it always ends after a period of excruciating pain. Sherlock has already felt it, during the dawn of 15th April, in the icy water while calling John's name over and over again, searching for him while his legs almost froze, while every single inch of his body was dipped in insane amounts of pain. But the Bond remained, even after enduring pain, even after five months.

Maybe because he was bearing John's child in him.

Sherlock searches in libraries, a tiny impossible part of him still clinging onto the irrational belief that John might be alive, even when he had searched the ship, even when he had searched the lists for 'John Watson' over and over again. It's no use he knows, and he has no idea how he is going to go through another five months whilst covering the changes in his body. Complete anonymity is necessary, since now it's not just an insane Alpha he is running from, it's an entire gang of criminals that he has to survive from, and the reach of his now powerful and extremely influential brother.

And it's another problem when he discovers that his brain rebels at stagnation. The occasional bursts of adrenaline and stimulation that his mind felt during his short encounter with Colonel Moran's network seems too sweet to part with.

And hence, John Altamont is a rising name in Chicago, an Irish-American unofficial Alpha detective, or rather an unofficial consulting detective as he dubbed himself, hiding behind the extraordinarily compelling facade. Sherlock draws his coat closer to him, not in an attempt to block out whatever cold he might be feeling during a perfectly fine October morning, but in an endeavour to remain anonymous to the world, hiding his bright fire-like eyes behind dull, tinted glasses and wearing several layers of clothing to hide his now slightly rounded stomach, the fake full beard hiding the distinctive cheekbones. He works off suppressants for now as his constitution prepares itself for the new life, for the end of the second trimester. Only his loyal housekeeper, Martha, now knows about his true gender, and makes sure that he eats properly enough. Sherlock tries his best too, in order to gain weight as fast as possible to camouflage the baby bump growing rapidly in the lower abdominal area. But the unpredictable loss and abrupt gain of weight makes things extremely difficult for him.

Chicago might not be under the Colonel and his men's criminal web, but there are some pleasantries nonetheless. And more so for an Irishman.

* * *

6th January, 1913

It's Sherlock's birthday, but he hardly remembers it, not when he was been spending a week holed up in the attic, working off his unsatisfied Heats.

It's hard for Sherlock to spend the third trimester without John, missing John. In the Omega biology, in order to keep the mates close, to establish the foundation for a healthy family and to strengthen their Bond, the Omega goes through relentless Heats during the third trimester, bringing the Alpha closer to him. In Sherlock's case, it is utter torment as he was forced to spend the entire Christmas in the attic, the ripples of unsatisfied Estrus screaming through him, screaming for John's touch, and in the end, any Alpha's touch, becoming a victim of his own biochemistry. He locks himself up there for days, asking the ever-faithful Martha to deposit his meals outside the door so that he would take them whenever he would please. He is off his Estrus-suppressor pills because they can cause the levels of the pregnancy hormones to drop, creating more complications in his body, and in earnest, Sherlock does not want anything to do with any doctor. At this point, only two women know his true gender: Martha and her daughter Louise, who, having lost their sole breadwinner, now depend on lending the rooms of the first floor of their house to a tenant like Sherlock.

If there's anything he wishes, it's for the baby to be born as early as possible, just to rid him of the hell he is going through. He becomes impatient, angry, frustrated, and then all of it leaves him weak, vulnerable and pitiful. His overactive imagination conjures up a John every time as that imaginary John succumbs to pleasure him day and night. Sherlock writhes, he moans, he pleads for John to stop even after the orgasm ripples through, to let him rest, to let him _eat,_ but to no avail. He knows that he isn't real, that it's just a figment of his imagination, but it's hard to verbalise his grievances as his mind - his own mind, which continues betraying him - replays back that one night, and the one wish he had made in the post-orgasmic haze: for John to keep making love to him for every waking moment of his life.

And then it becomes worse, as the sickening memories of Victor and Hunter run through him, making bile rise up in his throat as John vanishes and as the reminiscences of the rape arise as a twisted creation of his lust-fevered mind. He bangs across the walls, knowing that it is only going to get worse. He feels like a masochist, aiming for self-destruction, when self-preservation had been his goal from the beginning.

If there's a silver lining, it is that John cannot see him in so pathetic a state, and he is thankful for that. Although he wonders if John would be able to resist him if he had taken even one whiff of the pheromones. And the cycle starts over again, much to his agony.

Pregnancy is extremely disruptive for Sherlock. It leaves him tired and fatigued and unable to channelize his thoughts in proper direction, with extreme mood swings. And when one considers the fact that Sherlock is endowed with natural mood swings... yes, pregnancy is an absolute nightmare. He has explained away his absence at the Irish secret society at the Buffalo's by telling them that he was going away to Vermont on business. They didn't ask him much upon seeing how pale and distraught he looked.

It's disturbing for both mother and daughter too, to hear the constant groans as if Mr. Altamont was in acute agony, and it's hard to ignore the noises so obscene that they ought to have been made illegal. But Martha simply explains to her daughter that it is just biology, and that Mr. Altamont had to simply reconcile with it.

This happens every three days. Sherlock throws himself on the door, taking care to have his back turned to it, while it creaks under the strain of his weight. He bangs against him as his own biology wreaks havoc on his mind and body alike as he barely eats, or drinks or sleeps. He is pretty sure that the baby can hear the startling noises, and yet it is the last thing on his mind.

Once during an afternoon, when Martha had not yet returned to their home from groceries, Louise creeps upstairs to take the plates away, when she hears an almost animalistic groan leave Sherlock's mouth with an audible, "J - John!" followed by the sound of a fist slamming against the plaster of the walls angrily. Physical torment in exchange for the irrevocable emotional one.

"Go away!" he groans before the girl can blurt anything out, not trusting what he might end up saying. His eyes roll into the back of his head. He needs John there, and with the knowledge that John was there somewhere in the bottom of the Atlantic isn't helping him at all. He screams for mercy, he even calls Mycroft's name once or twice to save him from the hell he is going through. At the end, he is down with sudden fever, while he requests to the dear old landlady that she tie his limbs to his bedpost.

"It is the brain fever talking, Mr. Altamont," she exclaims, ignoring the intolerable irritation that was Sherlock, whilst completely horrified at his suggestion, even when he warns her about Louise coming up sometimes, just out of curiosity.

"No, you old witch! I do not have a brain fever," he can't help but be rude, with all his defences crumbling away to sawdust. Martha simply shakes her head. "You have me tied to this bedpost! I might end up injuring it."

He signals to the massive baby bump in his stomach over the birthing gown in which Martha has fetched for him.

"I will do no such thing, my dear sir!" She protests, but Sherlock ignores her, accepting the spoonful of spinach soup absentmindedly. His mood swings are still very horrible, "You must keep Louise away from... when this happens," he indicates once more to his child, "I can't take myself to a hospital, Martha," says he, trying to sound soothing, gentle but comes out as rasping instead, "If they come to know - "

"I shall give my life to keep your secret, sir," says she solemnly, and for the umpteenth time, Sherlock thanks his ability to instigate unconditional loyalty in other people, "I am a mother, and I know."

Sherlock rests his head back against the pillows as Martha feeds him another spoonful, and simultaneously taking the linen and dipping it in cold water before applying it over Sherlock's forehead, "Thank you, Martha."

The next day, His Heats miraculously stop. Just like that, without any warning, signalling that the labour would start any day, although as Martha had told him, it should probably start two weeks later. He has one or two things on his mind, and coupled with the grateful fact that it was January and that it is necessary for people to be wrapped up under as many layers of fabric as possible, he sets out in the disguise of a pregnant woman instead, which is a better disguise than a pregnant Omega. Of course, his height makes him look like an oddity on the Chicago streets, but it is convincing nonetheless.

Just as he takes the turn, there is a sharp pain which erupts in the breach, which means only one thing to him, in all of his education about Omega complexities.

"No!" It is too early, only thirty seven weeks. He was completely unprepared, not in the slightest. He turns around, calling a taxi only to find that they aren't keen to go to the part of the city that he wants them to.

"Just Leo's pub," he adds in a raspy but slightly feminine voice, and then adds, "My husband will be there."

The cabbie mutters under his breath, but he drives anyway, seeing that his passenger was a pregnant woman, just as Sherlock feels his water breaking. He wonders about Louise. He wasn't going to let her see him like this. He couldn't. It would be too debased, not to mention traumatic for a young girl.

He needs John, his Alpha beside him, holding his hands.

"Drive man!" he orders, his voice almost breaking, "Have you no conscience?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, Martha is NOT Mrs. Hudson. She is the housekeeper who appears in "His Last Bow" in the ACD cannon.


	21. A Flight For Life

A few hours later, Sherlock's bedroom door is latched shut, the only occupants being Sherlock himself and the harassed landlady Martha, who helps him through it. The labour can go on for hours, which means that Martha would have to deal with the extremities of Sherlock's annoyance (which was a laughably mild label) for hours.

"Mr. Altamont, breathe, it's okay," she whispers, holding on to his hand.

"I _am_ breathing!" he snaps back, "Stupid old woman!" He moans in pain, and squeezes her hand tighter. She just tries to console herself that this was the irritation and the mood swings coming on full-blown.

"It'll soon be over, my dear sir," she sighs, speaking as coaxingly as possible, "Just breathe in... deeply, like ooooo, huh u."

Even in the midst of a contraction, Sherlock rolls his eyes while his face contorts with pain, "Need.... John...."

Martha and Louise have never ventured further to ask Mr. Altamont about who "John" was, the only name Sherlock usually takes during his Heats. They fail to understand why Mr. Altamont would take his own name during his Heats. Nevertheless, Martha keeps up her soothing litany.

"He is not here at the moment, sir - "

"Thank _you_ for pointing out the obvious, Martha!" he hisses through clenched teeth, and she's left wondering if Mr. Altamont's Alpha's name was also John.

Peculiar indeed.

Another contraction wracks up Sherlock’s body, which he suffers through solely as he refuses Martha's offered fingers for abuse. She simply sighs, and dabs his forehead with a linen cloth dipped in cool water. Sherlock's fever has been returning to him, in continuous, painful bouts. From outside the door, they can hear Louise's agitated footsteps. Sherlock throws his head back, his body shivering in response to the labour.

"How long?" he hisses. She just shakes her head.

"Minutes to hours, I'm afraid I can't tell. It's your first child... Water?"

"Yes, plea-gah!"

Several contractions pass before Martha tells him to stop trying to push it out, "Just breathe, Mr. Altamont. Don't try to push it out as fast as possible, it'll all be over soon."

The next half hour is spent alternating between Sherlock leaning into Martha and coldly declaring that she was not needed and that she needed to get the hell out of there. Several times Sherlock even tries to push her away, or threaten her with burning down the house and reporting them to the police for having built their house on an illegal scrap of land and other preposterous threats. His resolve lasts through two sets of contractions before the fingers Martha had left next to him are crushed again in his grip.

"I WILL have you arrested for the charge of murder on someone!" he growls consistently, "I will hand your daughter over to gangsters!"

"Stop this, Mr. Altamont, and sip it!" she orders, and Sherlock simply makes a face at her even as his face twists with pain, sticking his tongue out like a petulant child. The next set of contractions are drowned in a dry-throated scream that tears itself treacherously from Sherlock's lips.

"It'll all be over soon, sir," she tries to console him, "It'll all be - "

"If you _ever_ come near me again," Sherlock starts on a fresh collection of insults, "I will - "

"Yes, you will, sir. I believe you," she speaks quickly, "Now breathe, and drink the water."

A few more contractions later, Martha decides that it is maybe now time, "If you feel the urge to push with the next contraction, go right ahead," she smiles reassuringly, gathering up the linen and moves them closer.

Groaning, Sherlock tries his best but the pain is too much. He tries to tell himself that he has had worse, but the thought isn't very helping. He grabs a pillow, and bites into it, stifling the moans, and Martha puts all pillows out of his reach, telling him that he needed to breathe, and Sherlock simply launches into a fresh assortment of swearing, especially the new ones he has picked up from the recent Irish society he has been frequenting.

"Do it, Mr. Altamont. The head's visible now!" she calls out encouragingly.

Minutes pass torturously slow as she calls out the milestones: the crown, the forehead, the eyes, the nose, the head. Sherlock's eyes go wide with the effort and his whole body convulses in pain. He can almost _feel_ the baby tearing its way out, tears prick his eyes, and he closes them shut. He feels like giving up, but his body insists on ejecting the child out, and he tries to.

"Almost there, that's it - !" And she is interrupted by a high-pitched wailing. Sherlock's soul, his whole constitution seems to give away with that one heavenly piece of wailing as he the contractions calm down finally, and Sherlock's slumps back against the bed, his eyes fluttering and then closing shut, the corners of his mouth trembling.

January 29th, 1913. His son's birthday.

It's over, he thinks.

But not just over, it's the beginning of a new era.

Martha reaches out for the scissors, and separates the baby from Sherlock.

He takes some moments to calm himself down and somehow, even if he tries hard, John's face looms up somewhere in his mind's eye.

Our baby, Sherlock, says he while Sherlock smiles, trying to reach out for him, I'm proud of you, love.

Almost immediately, Sherlock succumbs to tears again, tears of anguish that John cannot see this, the sight of the perfection that was his child. He does not notice the door that is thrown open and Louise's face when she chokes on the heavy, rich and pungent scent of afterbirth. It was unfair, that John wasn't there with him, that Martha had to hold his hand instead of him. Martha assumes that Mr. Altamont is in pain, and she lets him weep.

"Bring him to me," Sherlock croaks, wondering if the child was an Alpha or an Omega. The gender would take some more years, at least till puberty, to be determined. Martha's face shines with a radiance he has never seen upon her, as Sherlock's tired eyes rest on the little crying bundle of white cloth in her arms.

"He's beautiful, Mr. Altamont," says she, the wrinkles on her face becoming more prominent, "You made it through in eight hours - "

"Eight hours, twenty six minutes," he hisses, and Martha and Louise laugh.

"Here you are," she does not let her daughter touch the baby, lest she should drop it. Sherlock extends his arms shakily, and accepts the blond baby into his arms, determined not to drop him or making him shoot off into wailing. He tries to tell himself that it's just a baby, just another human, however little, and because he was _his_ son, he won't cry. He inhales a sharp breath before looking at at him, almost afraid of what he might look like.

His breath is lost.

The baby, his son, is red and purple, with a little scrunched-up face and a smattering of blond hair, glued down to his skull by the birthing fluid and some blood. Sherlock stares at his face disbelievingly, as if it is almost a miracle, and then his eyes go up and down his little body, and at his chest rising up and down rapidly. Almost immediately, the baby's cries stop, reducing to only a whimper as he recognises his mother's scent, and closes his eyes, making himself comfy as Sherlock gently cradles it. He is still squashed from the birthing, but even in his neo-natal face, Sherlock can make out John's features in him. He had John's nose and his deep-blue eyes, and Sherlock imagines how they would look when his face would crinkle up in annoyance or irritation. Maybe just like John's.

And Sherlock feels terrified, much more than when Titanic had hit the iceberg, or when that Alpha had assaulted him. He doesn't realise it at all as he utters a deep, throaty chuckle at his own stupidity. It's just an infant in his arms, and that too his. There's no reason to be scared, but he still is. He swallows, wondering what kind of life would he be able to give him. Had he taken a wise decision by bringing the little life into the harsh world, the world which was slowly steering itself towards unrest? Should he go back to Mycroft? Would he be able to raise him properly? Would he be able to feed him, take care of him, and the worst of all, protect him?

It's these moments for which Sherlock hates his practical thinking.

Nevertheless, he just brushes his lips against the crown of his head as his fingers reach out for its chest, where its new heart beats, just like John's chest felt under his fingers. The baby screws its face, giving out a hiccup and followed by a squeal, trying to move away from Sherlock's fingers as he prods him curiously. Martha laughs beside him, startling him. He had forgotten that mother and daughter were watching him closely.

"He's ticklish," she exclaims, and for the first time since the Titanic sank, Sherlock smiles a real, genuine smile. It's actually funny and shamelessly amazing to think of the baby as ticklish, where it was a natural reaction. To Sherlock, everything seems like a miracle now. He had no idea he had it in himself to bring the child into the world.

His child, his baby, with his adorable John-like-garden-gnome nose and his rising-and-falling chest, his perfect eyelashes, and his lips, and from his ten perfectly formed tiny fingers and his ten toes with his perfect nails and the smooth warm skin and his silky hair. It's all so perfect.

All in all, a little version of John. Sherlock strokes his cheek lovingly. But the little baby doesn't like it at all, as it catches hold of Sherlock's forefinger in one of its chubby miniscule palms, while looking like Sherlock does when he is almost about to throw a sulk.

"So," Louise sits beside him on the bed excitedly, "What are you going to call him?"

It strikes Sherlock all of a sudden that he has not even had time to even think about his name. But before he can open his mouth in answer, a bout of pain overtakes him. Louise recoils back, terrified.

"What's wrong?" she asks her mother. Martha simply takes the baby in her arms, and hands it over to Louise, "Hold the head like this, and _don't_ let go of him," she turns to Sherlock as her daughter exits. Sherlock groans upon seeing his son being led away from him, but Martha simply rubs his arms and takes his hand in hers again, "It's okay, this pain happens. It's normal," she adds calmly, seeing his panic-filled eyes. Sherlock sags back, half-relieved, while trying his best to fight the pain, "Do you need me to - ?"

"Leave," Sherlock commands automatically, and she flinches.

"I'll just - erm... give him a shower, alright?"

And with that, Sherlock is left alone in the room. To his relief, this time, the pain is much less intense.

Name, he thinks, wondering how such an unimportant issue had suddenly become top-priority for him.

Sentiment.

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock is still in his bed, exhausted with the whole laboring process, although in new pyjamas and with the sheets changed. Martha had helped with a shower, if one could call that, and now the little baby lies peacefully tucked against his chest, blinking up at him curiously as he feeds him.

"You father would have been proud," says he, and although he knows that logically, the baby does not understand him, and that he is too young to be actually looking and seeing, nevertheless he talks, like he used to do with John. His eyes track every rise and fall of his chest like it is the most alluring puzzle in the whole world.

It had been only four days together, and Sherlock has still not forgotten the fact. In four days, he had met John, solved a case with him, fallen in love with him, let him knot him and then Bonded to him. Only four days. One could almost call it a whirlwind romance or a fling, but for Sherlock it is much more, so much that even he fails to rationalise it. Even now, he can't help but blink in shock at how comfortably Thomas is around him.

"Thomas," he whispers, "I'll call you Thomas because there's no way in hell I'm letting anyone call you 'Hamish'."

Sherlock does not suppress the chuckle that rises up through his chest at the memory, and to his surprise, Thomas also giggles as if he understands it, but maybe it's because he sees his mother laugh too, and then he chokes on a bubble blowing out of his mouth. He refuses to be fed anymore, throwing what looks like a promising sulk even if he's only a couple of hours old.

"Painfully ordinary, I confess," Sherlock continues, "But better than 'Sherlock' at any rate."

 At this, Thomas' facial features screw up, as if disagreeing with him. He waves his little fists around while his eyes are still fixed on his. Louise enters excitedly, carrying Sherlock's dinner with her, but mostly in the hope of getting to hold the baby. Sherlock tries his best not to roll his eyes.

"So," she begins cheerfully, "Thought up any name?"

"Thomas," he shrugs, "I'm awful at names." He admits it as if it's his own dark secret.

"Aw Tom," says she with a twinkle in her eye, whilst Sherlock tries not to look appalled at the butchering of the name, "Can I hold him?"

Sherlock sags against the pillows, "Go ahead, but if he starts crying, that'll be the end of it."

Louise looks at him, a little shocked at his tone, only to see that his eyes are crinkled with humour and she is relieved to find that he is only joking. Slowly, as if he is the most precious thing in the whole world, Louise takes Thomas, or rather Tom in her nervous arms, cradling it and rocking it gently from side to side.

And the multitude of thoughts that Thomas manages to keep away when he is wrapped up in Sherlock's arms slowly make its way through to his mind.

He is reminded of the dangerous, gambling lifestyle that he leads now, and he wonders how he is going to bring Thomas up through all the adversities. Colonel Moran still haunts the back of his mind, after all the first time he had punished Sherlock for trying to hand him over to the police over the Jennifer Wilson case by setting an Unbonded Alpha loose with him in a locked room... he doesn't know what he can do once he finds out that Sherlock now has a child with him.

His thoughts shift towards the night advancing on him. The darkness could turn tables, could take away the only thing reminiscent of John from him. How would he know that Thomas would still be there in front of him, safe and sound and uninjured when he would blink his eyes? How would he know if he'd still be there in the morning, or for his next feeding? He tries to tell himself that such thoughts are preposterous, but he can't help it. They just keep creeping up like weeds in a garden.

And then came all the costs of raising Thomas. Sherlock's income was unpredictable, whereas for a child, a regular flow of cash was a pre-requisite, and then school, and university...

Sherlock thinks about his own plans for his university. It's all too messed up.

Relax love, John's voice wafts through, we'll make it through, you and I.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch in the tension that seeps back into his shoulders.

Nevertheless, feeling unprecedentedly hungry, he tucks into his meal, watching the landlady's daughter discover her latent talent at making faces at his son and revelling in his innocent peal of giggle and incoherent noises.

* * *

The next few weeks pass by like a blur. The attention of the entire house is fixated on Thomas, and Martha and Louise look much happier than Sherlock at the prospect of having a baby around. With a lot of grumbling and generous amount of sulks, Sherlock learns changing nappies and all the tasks that he had previously dubbed as mundane and boring, but watching Thomas grow so fast in front of his very eyes is a completely otherworldly feeling. Sometimes he remembers that even he was this pint sized-human that Thomas is now, and that even his bearer did this with him. Slowly and slowly, as Sherlock recovers from the birthing, he starts going out now that his heats have stopped for some time (another consequence of Omega biology to keep the bearer's undivided attention on the newborn).

His mates at Breckenridge's Irish club ask him about the "business" in Vermont, and Sherlock feels relieved for a moment that he has not told them about the fact that he was a father now. Even if he knows that he would have to turn to his mates once he needs to seek refuge from Colonel Moran should he appear in Chicago, because that is precisely the reason why he even joined the club, he still doubts their loyalty, especially one of the boys of the boss in there.

McCarthy was a sly man who, as Sherlock thought of him as, always filled his boss' ears with the unusual brand of gossip, and as for loyalty, its only with himself that his loyalties lie at all. In the highly unlikely event where the Colonel found out about Sherlock, he suspects that McCarthy will be the first person to turn against him.

Nevertheless, the first few months are full of joy accompanied with fatigue. Thomas, or Tom as Louise insists on calling him, is a demanding little boy, crying out just when Sherlock tries to close his eyes to catch a couple of hours of sleep, only to see the cheeky little imp laughing at his perplexed face. Kicking Sherlock right in the face just when he is about to be fed seems like his favourite pastime, and Sherlock feels thoroughly annoyed when he doesn't exhibit the similar behaviour with Martha.

"He knows that his bearer is just as annoying as he is, Mr. Altamont," says she fondly, watching Tom wave his arms around while folding the sheets one morning, "It's good to see you getting your comeuppance for being such a git to me."

Tom grins mischievously at Sherlock, as if confirming her words, showing him only his toothless gums. Sherlock rolls his eyes at him, instead of the other way round, and Tom tries to imitate his mother and succumbs to another laughing episode.

"Say 'mama'," Sherlock demands, curious to see how far the boy's intellect has developed. But Tom's smile fades, and he looks up at him in genuine confusion.

"Ma-ma," Sherlock tries again.

"Don't be foolish, Mr. Altamont," Martha chides him, "It'll take him more time." Sherlock sits right back up, the corners of his mouth twitching in embarrassment, "My mum said that I got it in the first three weeks."

"Well, he was fooling you, sir," she manages a small laugh.

Sherlock's room has become a makeshift nursery, and Louise hardly spends any time with her books, taking Tom out for small garden trips when Sherlock needs to sleep. It seems that, like his mother, he also hates sleeping, while demanding to be paraded around. Sometimes Sherlock takes him out for short walks while Tom experiments with whether he can put his whole fist in his mouth, and doubles up with high-pitched laughter right in Sherlock's left ear when he discovers for the hundredth time that he can.

"I'll send you to university even if you're an Omega," he promises, pressing a kiss to his hair, trying not to think about what may befall them before that, "Your Sire would've liked that... do you know that he was the most stubborn Alpha in the entire world?"

Tom screws up his face, as if not liking his Sire being called 'stubborn' when Sherlock was himself the finest example of that.

"No, seriously! He was," Sherlock escapes into thought, remembering John again, thinking how different his life would've been if John were still alive.

"He was.... he made up a stupid, unimaginative story about ice-fishing.... just to keep me from jumping..."

_William Sherlock Scott Holmes..._

_That's quite a moniker. I'll have to get you to write that one down..._

This time, Sherlock wanders further away from the house. Meanwhile, Tom runs his hands across Sherlock's chest and his chubby little hands strike something metallic, and then looks up at him, demanding to know why his skin turned cool and hard abruptly from warm and soft. Sherlock grimaces guiltily.

"Can't help it," says he, rocking his son gently to-and-fro while tucking the pistol into the waistband of his trousers properly, "Precautions."

He lets Tom explore the bark of a maple tree with his hands and fingers. Tom tries to fish himself out of Sherlock's arms and climb up the tree, but Sherlock gently pulls him away, supporting his head, and the spine which has not yet developed fully. To his surprise, his eyes narrow and he looks very much like a miniature John.

"There - erm... might be wood ants?" Sherlock tries a lame excuse, but Tom decides that he is buying none of it, and then almost unpredictably he starts blowing little bubbles into saliva which Sherlock wipes away with a natural remark of 'unhygienic'. Tom decidedly ignores him and continues with his crusade, and Sherlock lets out an all-suffering sigh, feeling very much like Mycroft.

Tom lets out a little cough, and Sherlock rubs his back. Up in the heavens, a shooting star passes by through the dusk sky. They're quite near Leo's pub now. Sherlock cradles him, showing the star to him, "That's a meteor. You're never supposed to wish on it, is that clear?"

Tom does not react. He just stares solemnly.

* * *

19th July, 1913

Slowly managing Tom and his own life is not easy for Sherlock. It's difficult to want to stay away from Tom against his parental instincts or leave him under Martha's expert care, but it is all he can do to earn his livelihood, so he goes out at the most thrice a week to help the blithering idiots at the Chicago city police department. This time, everyone is amazed as Sherlock keeps his insults to an all-time low by helping out Inspector Bradstreet, who respects him more than anything. It's hard to "turn it off like a tap", but it's all Sherlock can do to ensure Tom's safety, to ensure that people will be on his side when he needs them to be.

Tom might have got John's appearance more than Sherlock's, but in terms of restlessness, he is Sherlock's perfect successor, and Sherlock had thankfully laid him to sleep after Martha's horrified and dramatic, as Sherlock dubbed them, exclamations when he had suggested using sleeping pills in case Tom did not want to sleep.

The case had been eventful, and Sherlock hurries back home as fast as possible without any cabs taking him in that direction. It is almost time for Tom's feeding. He knocks the door, but no one answers.

"Louise? Martha?" He calls out, "Hello?"

Sherlock pins his ear to the door, listening intently. There's only the vague sounds of Tom crying, and Sherlock finds it impossible to believe that Martha has left his son unguarded and alone in the house. And then he looks down on the steps to find a couple of muddy footprints on the porch and a scratch on the door that wasn't there before. His eyes dart from one end to another and he licks his lips nervously. Going around the back, he hurries up the pipeline silently, praying for it to not fall as he makes his ascent, and slides in through the window of his bedroom. The room is ransacked, and a bottle of milk lies upturned. Taking a deep breath, he cocks his revolver as silently as he can and slithers down the steps where the strong stench of blood reaches his nostrils. Tom is still crying somewhere, and a panic threatens to seize him, but nevertheless he presses a hand to his nose and continues silently. The sight which greets him makes the ground slip from beneath his feet.

Martha and Louise lie on the ground, their throats slit while fresh blood still stains the carpet. Beside them, right in the puddle of blood, Tom is sitting, thankfully uninjured, crying out loudly for anyone who cared to listen. His eyes go to the two men who're waiting near the main door, waiting for Sherlock to arrive while ignoring the protesting child's cries, their revolvers ready. Sherlock recognises them as the henchmen of the gang of bank robbers he had helped capture some weeks ago.

Putting a finger on his lips, as if Tom would understand, Sherlock walks down smoothly, firing five shots, killing the men. He almost throws up at the sight of the slain mother and daughter. Containing the instinct inside him, he grabs Tom urgently, shushing him and placating him as his one arm wraps around his little body, wiping off the blood from his cheeks. He rocks him gently, since that's the action he seems to like the best. Tom silences himself gradually, whimpering into his mother's shoulders as Sherlock holds him protectively against  his chest.

We need to move, he thinks, going up to his room and loading his revolver with fresh bullets.


	22. You Shouldn't Have Seen That

We need to move, Sherlock thinks, going up to his room and loading his revolver with fresh bullets. He takes Tom in his arms, and wraps a bed sheet around his torso, and then settling Tom into it, still whimpering into Sherlock's chest as he whispers comforting words into his ear. Well, he thinks that they're comforting. He grabs his greatcoat, and pulls it over his shoulders He almost wishes that Tom were still inside him. At least he would have been safer.

He looks around for a strong rope. There isn't any. He groans in disappointment. How come he had never thought of anything as predictable as this?

Realising that the main entrance of the house may be compromised, Sherlock takes in a deep breath, and ties the bedsheet tighter around his waist, effectively pinning Tom against him, and then he throws open the window. He might not be able to make it as far as the Chicago City Police department, and apart from Leo's, the Breckenridge's was the closest. He swallows at the drop under him. It has never bothered him before, but now with little Tom hugging onto him with his little arms, his warm breath on him falling almost rhythmically on his chest as he rests his weary head on him, the drop seems terrifying. Sherlock is, for a moment, transported back on Titanic, where he had tried to jump off the ship in a moment of weakness and anger, and where John had first saved him, or the time where they had been stuck as they had made their final standing on the Titanic. Trying his best not to close his eyes, he sits on the window rail and takes a deep breath to assess the best route he can take to escape down the pipe.

"Only to Breckenridge's club," he assures him softly, his cheeks pale but his eyes shining with action, "I'll save us."

Tom in still clinging to him, his small soft, trusting arms around his neck, and although Sherlock suspects that he is already asleep, he hurriedly represses every little breath and sound that he makes as he steps on the ledge and strengthens his grip on the pipe, slowly making his way down the building.

Strange, alien is the sensation of a child's smaller body hugging to your chest, providing you with a mystifying calmness in the tempest like at the eye of a hurricane, and yet driving you insane in a paroxysm of frenzy in the situations which need your utmost composure. The strength which the quiet hum that escapes Tom's nostrils gently as his little heart beats against Sherlock's rib imparts inside him feels not only strong, but terrifying and grounding, at times even malignant. He is aware that his own frantic heart may startle him, but Tom simply cooes gently against him, as if reassuring that "Go, mother! _You_ can save me!", and he disappears into the little bundle of cloth in which Sherlock has secured him. Holding his breath in his chest, he makes his way down carefully, and takes the last few feet for a drop. Tom shudders beside him, but he continues his gentle snoring. How convenient for him to be able to sleep anytime he wants to.

Sherlock cocks his pistol, and with an arm around his child, he makes his pursuit across the garden, and jumps over the hedge and on to the garden of the neighbour. The white bed sheet is starting to soak in blood that had been drenching Tom's clothes now, and the neighbours look around in astonishment as Sherlock carries him across. He turns around the corner, and finds himself face-to-face with two other ruffians with their pistols and knives out. In a split second to cover Tom's ears to block out the startling sound, he's too late to react to the bullet which lodges into his biceps. He grits his teeth, attempting to block out the physical pain by concentrating on the feeling of Tom's little, chubby arms around him. He can kill for him, and do things that he hasn't thought himself capable of. With two imperfect shots, the men lie in a heap groaning with the bullets in their thighs and Tom is awoken again. Finding himself surrounded by his mother's scent spurting from the blood that Sherlock's injured arm is leaking now, he rests his sleepy head back on his chest and goes off into his own brand of vague dreams. He frowns to himself, and a saliva bubble bursts from his mouth.

Taking a route that is longer but knowing that no one is going to suspect him of it, Sherlock ties a handkerchief around his bleeding arm, and not wasting any time to find the bullet, he runs on, deriving his strength from the trust that the little life has placed in him and from the everlasting bond of maternal love, which drives him headfirst into a frenzy at the approach of danger. He does not know how many thugs are in his pursuit. The very thought of separation from his child rises like bile in his throat as he chokes on it with a convulsive gasp, and strains him tightly to his bosom.

It is frankly the most terrifying and paranoia-inducing situation he has ever been in. Since it is afternoon time, most of the stores are closed, and the streets are generously empty, but every solitary shadow seems like a foe, every life passing by him appears to own a pistol and sends the blood gushing backward into his heart, cold and purple. Even though his strength drains out quickly, for the Leo's are on the opposite side of the town, and within half-a-mile, Breckenridge's would be visible, Tom's breathing on his chest pours strength into him in electric streams. He arrives on the main street, covered with his blood and his landlady's and her daughter's, and the cabbie refuses to take him, even though he sees the apparently unharmed child in his arms.

"Sorry. Off duty."

"I have a child," he begs for the first time in a voice that startles himself, for it seems to come from an alien spirit within, that is by no means a part of him, "Please, he's my son. I'm the only one he has in the world."

The cabbie rolls his eyes, "Off duty." Sherlock brandishes his pistol, his breathing precise and steady, and points it at the cabbie's forehead, who looks from him to his child with loathing, "I'm through with requests, god damn it! Take me otherwise I'll unload all the six barrels into your unused brain!"

Tom wakes up with a start, and watches his mother's ruthless eyes and pallid cheekbones wide-eyed, and then his gaze fixes on the gun. Upon seeing the glint of metal against the afternoon sun, he lets out a delighted chuckle as Sherlock supports his medulla with a large palm. The cabbie swallows, and hurries them into his cab.

"The Buffalo's."

* * *

Sherlock stumbles into the club drenched in blood. Tom is now awake and nuzzling the crown of his head against his chin, and Sherlock remembers that now it is his feeding time, but he cannot do anything, not until he is safe. For the first time, he is _glad_ that Tom has John's face more than his, that people won't assume Tom to be his son.

His Heats are a couple of weeks later. The scant number of people sitting in the diner look around at him, a bloody man tall enough to be considered an Alpha with an infant in his hand, and they freeze at the horrendous sight. The barkeeper and the boss are there too, and it takes them several moments to recognise John Altamont.

"By Jove, it is Altamont himself," says one of them, "Man, what has fallen upon you?"

Sherlock doesn't reply, bobbing unsteadily on his feet as he grabs the bar to keep himself standing in spite the fatigue, "Water, I need water!"

It's another half an hour before they call a doctor for stitches. Tom is wailing loudly on the cot, as Sherlock excuses himself to the bathroom, insisting that Tom should go with him. It has been a taxing day for him, to be mild, and he feels his heart leaping into his throat at the idea of letting Tom out of his sight even for one second.

The difficulty is in the fact that Tom is still in his breastfeeding months and Sherlock cannot let anyone come to know that he is an Omega, after having religiously maintained his gender a secret for months. In private, even as the doctor protests, he sheds his shirt, and with a scalpel that was the doctor's equipment, he cuts into his flesh, taking care that Tom doesn't see the sight because now he is old enough to retain visual memories.

Tom wails louder upon hearing the groans from his mother as he reaches out of the bullet that is snugly fixed between his shattered shoulder bone and the joint of his humerus. After covering the rest of the area with generous amounts of sterilised cotton and antiseptic he takes a look at his now healthier body, a courtesy of his late landlady and her daughter, and the gash marring the skin and flesh. Wrapping a cloth tightly around himself, it takes him a painful quarter of an hour to get the bullet out of himself, and present himself for stitches and recovery for his bone. After that, he bathes Tom and feeds him in the quarters that the Underboss has provided him for the time being. Seeing that the windows are locked and latched properly, and keeping the door open so that Tom is in his view at all times, he sinks into the tub full of lukewarm water and contemplates his next course of action.

The Breckenridge's is the safest place in the world now for Tom, and the most unsafe place for him, because once the Estrus cycle begins, there's surely going to be countless Unbonded Alphas after him. He curses nature which allows an Alpha to remain bonded to an Omega, but not vice versa.

Tom twists and turns in his sleep, frowning slightly like the way he has never seen him frown before. And before Sherlock can wonder what the matter is with him, he is awake and wailing loudly. Sherlock wraps a towel around his waist and rushes to him, scooping him up and taking him gingerly in his arms as the stitches hurt him, but Tom still cries and sniffles as he gently rocks him to-and-fro.

"What is it?" he asks, while Tom wails louder, and Sherlock stops the motion, "Hungry?"

His cries decrease in volume, but nevertheless they're still there. After a change of nappies and some little tickling which eventually makes Tom giggle, Sherlock senses that maybe Tom doesn't want to remain in bed. That only confirms itself when he goes to put him on his cot, and instead he snuggles closer to his mum.

"You're not getting rid of me any time soon," Sherlock whispers, cradling him closer to his chest while taking care of his left arm, "I'm not going to let them get to you."

Is this how his life is going to be now? Running from one place to another with his child and staying like a refugee from the criminals he helps catch? He doesn't want to get out of America yet, because they respect a man's privacy here. The lodgekeepers haven't asked him who the baby is, and the boss has given him three more days to recover after which he must tell him what has happened. Would it be proper to tell them that Tom is his child? Maybe he can pass that up because he doesn't look like him much except for the distinctive curls which were coming out of his golden hair. He doesn't want risks. He used to, but not with Tom involved. Not when his life was at stake.

"Ba—wah," Tom babbles in his sleep. Sherlock listens closer, fascinated, and eager to hear a 'da' or a 'ma'. None follow after that. His eyes don't close. Hell, they might never close and he might have to sleep with one eye open from now on. Just keeping him in sight isn't going to be enough because Sherlock knows his ability to drift off to his own thoughts.

Thought like to the time John had sketched him on paper.

Sherlock still remembers every single moment of those erotic one hour and thirty seven minutes of lying nude and utterly vulnerable in front of John, and in Heat, and still, unlike a regular Alpha, he hadn't taken him there. He had spent another hour with Sherlock before he had let him make love to him.

But that was at the bottom of the Atlantic with its artist. Sherlock wishes for an irrational moment that he had the drawing with him. At least it would keep fresh in his mind how John always saw him, the true him.

"Ba—wah!"

* * *

After three days, Sherlock decides that it is time to talk.

The boss is a powerful man in these parts of the States, especially in Chicago. Sherlock has always elected to stay on the surface of the secret society, contrary to his real nature, once he found out that he was pregnant. As he cradles Tom in his lap and seeks out the boss, he cannot help but notice McCarthy's sly eyes on him and, more that that, on Tom. The worst part of parenthood is that you become paranoid of everything, and Sherlock feels similarly. He actually believes that even though he can vouch for the loyalty of every Irishman in there except McCarthy's, every single person in the room is secretly against him and that they are just waiting for a chance to take Tom away from him, or maybe slip snakes into their beds. Unconscious of it, he cradles Tom's head and blocks his child from his malicious eyes, and before he can take another step, McCarthy is beside him.

"Fancy a drink, Altamont?" He asks, a steel tooth glinting in the low light of the bar. Tom points at it excitedly, giggling with pure happiness and Sherlock wants nothing more than to teach his boy a lesson of All That Glitters Is Not Gold.

"No, thank you. I'm looking for the boss."

McCarthy snorts, "You never told us that you had a kid, eh?"

Sherlock swallows, but he knows that McCarthy is not intelligent enough to see it, "He is my late housekeeper's son."

The man's eyes narrow momentarily, and go from Sherlock's face to that of Tom and finally to the protective grip that Sherlock has on him, "Yeah sure. Your housekeeper's son."

Thankfully, the boss chooses to arrive at that moment. Sherlock turns away and walks towards the big intimidating Alpha with an abundance of grizzled beard under his chin and in clothes too rich for his taste. He can almost predict Mycroft's appalled face at that.

The boss gives Sherlock a mock salute, and reaches out to touch Tom's fingers playfully. Sherlock stops himself from flinching at the thought of the vile man's hands touching his son.

"So, Altamont, care to explain?"

"Yes," Sherlock begins, "I—"

"McCarthy, get your self-centred arse over here," he barks to him, "Yeah, shoot away... By the way, that's not your son, is it? I thought you were—"

"No," Sherlock shakes his head, "He's my late housekeeper's son."

"Ah yes. That's why there's no resemblance," he strokes his beard, trying to twist it into a goatee, which he notes is never going to happen. Tom reaches out for the beard too, and gives it a sharp tug upon finding that his chubby fingers have become entangled in it. Sherlock controls his laughter at that, forcing himself to come up to him seriously, "Keep that devil off my beard," he curses.

Sherlock wants to growl that there is a _lot_ of resemblance, and that his eyes are too muddled to be able to spot it. He refrains from saying that.

"He likes you. I can't imagine why," Sherlock counters back, and the boss mistakes the truth in his words for sarcasm. McCarthy joins them and he seems to be listening intently to what Sherlock has to say.

"You adopted him?" He asks him, and Sherlock simply shrugs. Introducing his son as not his son is the easiest way to ensure Tom's safety.

"Yeah... Sort of. Old landlady did me a favour. I'm just returning 'em."

The boss slaps him on the very place where the bullet had hit him. Sherlock tries not to wince in pain at that, "So, you got robbers on your arse now? How cool is that?"

Sherlock grits his teeth. It's not cool at all, "If I'm going to have to take care of him, I can't have robbers on my behind, as you put it very astutely."

Before the boss can answer, McCarthy joins in with his simpering voice, speaking in his typical nervous but sinister fashion. "You want to get out? Out of Chicago?"

"If that's in any way possible, yes." But the boss shakes his head.

"You can't get out of the society. And I'm sure you don't want to add any more to your pursuit, do you?"

Sherlock laughs at that inwardly. He has a robbers' gang, possibly Colonel Moran's gang too in the east. Fleeing would add these full-blooded Irishmen, and to the west.... he is just thankful that Victor Trevor is dead. He's not keen on Canada or Mexico, not with the Mexican Civil War going on in full spirit and the US troops marching southward. There's literally nowhere to go except out of America or staying in the Central States. Going back to Europe isn't an option, at least not the one he prefers to staying in America.

"I'm not running. I need a job," Sherlock says, and they know what he's suggesting.

"You're with the police. By Jove, Altamont, if this turns out to be some kind of trap—!"

"Boss," McCarthy nudges him, and only heaven help Sherlock, "Why don't we give him _that_ one?"

Sherlock's eyes dart frantically from one Alpha to other, as they turn away from him and discuss in hushed voices. After sometime, they have identical smiles on their faces.

There is indeed some mischief afoot.

* * *

Sherlock knows he is mad, that he should never have trusted McCarthy's decision, and the moment he had proposed this, he had known that the boss would get him to work it up. But now, after his bones have healed, he is free as a bird, in a small van set out with one of Boss Breckenridge's agents, set out for Massachusetts with his heat blocking chemical preparations in his luggage bag and Tom in his arms, looking up at him curiously as lies in his lap, playing with Sherlock's long fingers. He can now speak very crude syllables like 'da-da' or 'ba-na-na' but his nighttime crying hasn't stopped. Sherlock cannot understand why he cries at night. Does he feel unsafe? There's no reason to.

He must be crazy to even consider this. His mission will eventually end up with him being carted back to Europe, where the Second Balkan War was on the verge of breaking out in Eastern Europe, and Germany was recruiting for the biggest army since the mid-nineteenth century, and here he was setting out towards almost a suicide mission back to Massachusetts, back to the reign of terror of Colonel Moran, with his baby boy and many other idiots.

Sherlock wants to believe that he keeps Tom happy. He can make that out in the faces he makes at him, and the tickling and the giggling and the whining to be fed before time. But somewhere along the line, he feels like an utter disaster for his son, for having him left in the house that day. Tom's crying had started from that night itself, and Sherlock finds himself wondering if the sight of the slit throats of the people he loved, and particularly Louise's, had some effect on Tom's... would it have? Tom was seriously too young to be able to remember such things.

But Tom was, after all, his child. The first time Sherlock had taken him out for a walk, Tom had been drawn to the bark of a cherry tree. And since then, every time, Tom successfully made Sherlock walk back to that same tree. It was very probable that he remembered. Was that sort of thing even possible? Such... mental ailments at such a tender age?

He sees Tom blow a bubble into the drool gathering in his mouth. Sherlock hurriedly wipes his mouth with a general remark of "unhygienic". It doesn't seem like it.

He's just being paranoid, he assures himself.

Getting down at Boston, Sherlock contemplates his two choices. He can drug his fellow companion, run away and start his life anew, safe and secure. Or he can attract the attention of the man he has been sent to work under.

Von Bork.

He decides the latter. The first alternative is far too dangerous, now that he is going to work right under the Colonel's nose. He'd rather stay under protection.

It takes days, weeks, months to finally catch the attention of a subordinate agent of Von Bork. Sherlock still isn't sure what there is about the man that so many people were after him. Von Bork himself has been working under an assumed name, and McCarthy had ensured that Sherlock got the worst work, not considering that he had a child with him, because it was not _his_ child, so they assumed that it shouldn't matter to him.

It takes him some time to realise that this Von Bork man was the employer of Colonel Moran, and Sherlock has every reason to suspect that he was intent upon creating war, and rather involving United States with it as well, and maybe Belgium too which, as opposed to his tastes was electing to remain neutral through everything.

The September of 1913 is hard to pass by. Tom is eight months old, and now completely intent upon standing up by holding onto his mother's long, bony legs as Sherlock spends all his time hunched over the threads of cause and effect on paper, how the murders of a steel mill owner, or the owner of cotton plantations or the fraud of a firearms manufacturing firm could be connected. They had one man in common, Von Bork, and although Sherlock's own agent has refrained from enlisting the help of the police, Sherlock is completely amenable to the idea. It has now become a total necessity to withhold his gender from the rest of the world and of course, from the police, because an Omega wasn't supposed to wade in such deep waters. He was supposed to stay inside a palace made of glass and drink cups after cups of tea, have his Alpha banging hard and fast into him and produce millions of children.

By the end of January 1914, Tom has made it to his first year of existence, and Sherlock frankly feels that this is a complete miracle that they have made it to even one year. By now, Tom can take his first steps by holding on to Sherlock's hand (or mostly his leg) instead of tottering like he used to previously. It is a welcome relief from the previous crawling all over the house, and even over impossible places like the kitchen sink or the WC or the garbage bin. Tom really likes the feel of a metal spoon between his chubby fingers, waving it around and sometimes into Sherlock. His nighttime crying is gradually beginning to stop until it's only disturbing sniffling. Although now that their lives are quite smooth to the point where he can trust his agent to babysit Tom, seeing as he was so fond of him, there is the next thing to be worried about: Tom's growth, and his school and education.

There will come one time when Tom, being the curious little boy that he was (if one had to go by the way he insisted on exploring the whole house and making a general mess of all of it), will wonder about his mother's real gender when he learns that there are three kinds of males. And it is that day that Sherlock dreads, when he'll find out that he is an Omega, while the world will tell him that he is an Alpha.

Sherlock has never thought that he would eventually have to hide his real gender from his own boy. That wouldn't be easy whenever Sherlock's Heats would come around. Even though he is on frankly ridiculous amounts of self-synthesised heat suppressing chemicals, the ones that he doesn't know the side-effects of, there will remain the general irritation and sexual dissatisfaction. Hell, Sherlock got irritated during his Heats now, what would happen when Tom would realise that the irritation was almost periodic, twice a month? It wouldn't take him long to figure it out.

Till then, Sherlock introduces himself to his son as his 'da-da'. What if Tom turns out to be the one to out his gender once he learns that Sherlock is an Omega after all? Such questions make up the bulk of Sherlock's thoughts.

The rest consists of his work. Von Bork honours him with his confidence, something that Sherlock takes advantage of mercilessly. The German is also a blackmailer, and Sherlock can only hope to work with (and against him only until his gender is learnt).

That happens one day. Sherlock exits the wiring office, having sent some general nonsense about a radiator and cruiser plans, when he finds the gentleman himself waiting for him in a cab, looking up at him expectantly. Sherlock bites his tongue, and with one smooth slip beside him, the cab drives them through the streets of Boston.

"Fancy a smoke, Altamont?"

Sherlock smirks up at him, until he sees a brown parcel in his hands labelled 'White Star Line'. He immediately catches himself from groaning. He should never have come to Boston.

"I'm always up for a smoke, sir," says he, leaning in to light the cigarette that Von Bork has offered him, "I was just returning from—"

"Sending me a wire, I see," says he nonchalantly, playing with his lighter, "I know, and I'm _extremely_ grateful."

Sherlock keeps quiet and looks out of the window, his mind automatically travelling to his son sitting in day care, waving his chubby little fists and trying to walk wherever his legs could carry him.

"Funny, that," he motions at Sherlock drinking smoke from the cigarette, "Haven't heard of an _Omega_  smoking, William.... Sherlock Scott Holmes. Or rather, Charles John Basil," he chants, "And now, John Altamont, formerly of the Freemen Clan of Chicago. Oh, oops! Did I say formerly?"

"Yes, formerly," Sherlock reminded him, fixing him with his piercing eyes, "I work for you, in case you haven't noticed."

"Precisely.... An Omega, that also I've noticed. _Unbonded—_ "

"I'm Bonded," Sherlock tells him with a growl, but Von Bork simply sneers.

"I don't see your Alpha around." Hard, icy blue and cold eyes assess Sherlock. He swallows.

"You don't." He confirms, "We're estranged." He says so, thinking that Von Bork will assume him Unbonded anyway if he said that John was dead.

"Unbonded," he repeats, looking Sherlock from head to toe and his gaze resting slightly on the pale column of his neck. Sherlock cuts across him.

"In the eyes of law, yes. But since when do _you_ care about law, Mister Von Bork?"

Von Bork assesses him again upon hearing his real name, the German accent in his voice and his misplaced verbs now more perceptible. After sometime, he relieves Sherlock from the uncomfortable scrutiny and extends his hand, "You complete a job for me, and these files," he shows him the White Star Line stamped brown package, "They'll be awaiting your convenience."

He looks down at Von Bork's palms. They're sweating, badly.

Sherlock knew that somehow he was going to end up in Europe again as he extends his hand too in a formal shake.

* * *

That day, Sherlock storms into his humble lodgings, with Tom in his arms and with supplies for the whole next week for him. His agent hasn't reported to him yet, and he wants to get the hell out of there before he can see what he is up to. He feels like the Devil who wanders about, making deals and twisting them to suit his own needs. He has no time to think what John would've thought of this new, more dangerous Sherlock. It is survival of the fittest and his son, and his maternal instincts really didn't give a damn about morality anymore.

He sets him down on his cot and rushes about the flat, grabbing all the money he can manage. There was a time when he used to think that he would rather want to live poor but free rather than rich and chained. Well, this is the taste of that life and he can't say that he is content except for the one good thing in his life that is his child. As he rushes into his bedroom, he hears the turn of a key in the main door followed by a distinctive click of the lock. His agent is here, and he's late. Perhaps they can sneak out in the night and make it to the Boston Harbor just in time for the steamer. The third class tickets aboard the Cunard Liner SS Alaunia were starting to feel heavy in his pocket despite having been made of paper.

"Altamont?" His voice rings out, "What's this?"

To his horror, Sherlock remembers that he has left the tickets on the table in his overcoat. He swallows thickly. Tom is still there, although now he is eerily silent instead of the chuckles he makes whenever the agent is there in their house. He looks around, finds a blank piece of paper. He takes it, making almost no noise, and scribbles what looks like the drawing of a steamer with the words in large 'SS Alaunia' and 'Cunard' on them.

"Why're you going to Liverpool?" His voice comes out, and Sherlock's sharp ears hear the cocking of a pistol. Out of frenzy, his fingers start shaking, and he forces himself to take several deep breaths before materialising in front of him. He has his gun out and ready, and Tom is sitting right next to him, watching the gun with cool interest.

"You tell me what is going on, Altamont. Or—or I'll—I'll tell the boss you're fl—fleeing."

"Da-da!" He calls out, pointing at the steely glitter of the pistol. Before Sherlock can react, his hands are on his son and the pistol on his temple.

"Right, McCarthy told me you would try and do this," he points his gun at Sherlock and then to Tom, "He tol' me to keep an eye on you!"

"Put the gun down," Sherlock breathes, stressing on every word, trying to approach him. In his mind, he is already killing him for even thinking of putting _his_ son at gunpoint, "I'm not fleeing."

"Then tell me!" He demands, "Tell me, or I'll load all the bullets into this angel's brain," he points to Tom. Sherlock doesn't flinch at that outwardly. Reaching out for his own gun is immaterial. For all the precautions he has taken, how could it have come down to this?

"Yes," Sherlock's eyes are fixed on the metal kissing Tom's right temple, "You keep Thomas down, now—yea, we're going to Liverpool—not just Thomas and I," from his back, he draws out the fake ticket that he has drawn in a moment of emergency and frantic thinking, "You too. This is part of the plan."

The agent looks uncertain for a moment, the ticket too far for him to see properly. Sherlock tries to smile reassuringly, "Boss wired me today. Rest of the shipment is in Liverpool."

As the confused man approaches to examine his ticket, he keeps Tom down and Sherlock exhales a grateful sigh at that. And then, before the agent can realise that Sherlock only needed a reason to make him come closer to him, Sherlock wriggles the gun out of his fingers and with one sharp stroke and a sprain later, the man lies at his feet, wide eyed, staring at the gun between his eyes.

"No one dares threaten _my_ son." He growls before pulling the trigger. And then he remembers that there is someone else in the room.

Tom is staring wide eyed at the dead man, and then back to his mother, and then at the dead man, and then at his mother.

"Oh, dear Lord," he whispers, looking at the pistol, his breathing gone ragged. "You shouldn't have seen that."

He looks into Tom's deep blue eyes, and he _knows_ that no matter how young his son is, he is never going to forget the scene. At least not subconsciously. It's not like he hasn't killed ever. He has. But... not when his son was watching intently. The ribbon of blood that flows out of the dead man's body makes its way towards his feet, like accusing tendrils following him wherever he goes as he staggers backward.

John would never have loved him, he thinks. Not the person he has become. But.... he did it for Tom, didn't he? Otherwise, he would've killed his boy.

"I've become a monster."


	23. A Second Tale Unfolds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the humungously long delay. 1) I had been working on my other fics. 2) I decided to go back and improve upon the initial chapters. . . some of them, at least 3) Busy with uni as hell. 4) Brain wasn't working :(
> 
> Since I made you wait so long, I came up with an idea to make this chapter sort of an interlude. Sorry if it's disappointing, but I have a feeling that it might not be.
> 
> Apologies for this being such a small chapter after such a long wait. You guys are the best! x

_. . . We're going to make it, John. . . We're going to make it. . . Trust me._

Sounds of raspy breath mingled with the noise of the ocean devouring the biggest ship known to the mankind. Of screams of a thousand damned souls. It's analogous to hell, except he is surrounded by a black veil of water instead of fire burning bright, restless, churning.

He hears the echoing sound of distant waltz music, the stern of _Titanic_ looming out against the stars like a ghost out of the dark. It seems to be lit by a kind of moonlight, a light of the mind.

He shifts, cold sweat breaking on his forehead. The covers under him twist and fold as his whole body looks like it is beginning to twist with his body going into almost an epilepsy from the nightmare. But it doesn't. He is still still.

_Kick for the surface. . . and keep kicking. . ._

The room is way too small for him, way too dark to sleep in with peace. Almost any moment, the ship might go in, might be sucked in. He is holding for his hand, his lover's hand, his Bonded, his precious, precious mate.

He talks in his sleep when he dreams, a soft humming noise, and a indiscernible name over and over again. When he has nightmares, however, he is silent, sometimes barely breathing, barely daring to move as if the tiniest hitch in his breath might make the ground split apart and swallow him whole. His right fist clenches and unclenches as his legs entangle in the covers. His lips move in the beginning of names but he never takes them, never utters them. Scared that it may anger his spirit. Scared that if he opens his mouth, he might shout and wake others up, those near him beside him.

He can't wake him up, the ones sleeping on the bunk beds. By the time morning comes in, he'll be away, way before the legal passengers of the cabin wake up to see the vagabond on the floor. Lock-picking is always such a simple affair.

_I saw new heavens and a new earth. The former heavens and the former earth had passed away and the sea was no longer_

He is no longer. He sees nothing, in his dreams, only the hands, fingers of his true mate, still Bonded to a dead man and the roaring and churning of the sea as it claimed them in its grasp, into the watery graveyard. Still fighting, to save him, to save himself, to steer themselves towards the future they had so naively planned before the unthinkable had happened.

 _Titanic_ had foundered.

_You jump, I jump, Sherlock._

He spread his arms wide, and thought of flying. His fingers entwined with his. There is nothing like that. More than a year has passed and there's nothing which comes close to that. Would they have been safe if they had not got together? He could've gone with his own family, and he could've gone with Mike and Greg, maybe even rescued them. The guilt lies low and heavy in his stomach. He owes a lot of their union to Mike and Greg. One moment, he had everything, he had his Bonded, and the next morning, he lost it all.

_I heard a loud voice from the throne ring out this is God's dwelling among men._

He wakes up with a start, his breath heavy and ragged, his eyes blinking confusedly, his chest heaving. He collapses back onto the floor, because that's where he lives now, where he can live now. Cannot afford a bed. Too poor. No money in the wallet or the pocket. Got on as a stowaway. Can escape the Master-At-Arms if they find out that they have a stowaway. He knows all about escaping and avoiding.

The sound of the sea breaks against the walls of the cabin. He has become used to the din, as if his ear drums have split apart due to the continuous exposure to the noise. He only fears for the day he will land. Will he be able to hear anything? Will his ears ache from the effort of listening to the silence he'll be encased in?

He should've sued _White_ _Star_ _Line_ when he got the chance, but he has no papers to prove his identity. He doesn't even have a proper name. But then, he reminds himself, he'd rather be hungry than eat off someone else's money.

His breathing has slowed down, and his eyes close out of exhaustion. Slowly, he goes back to sleep.

* * *

There's not much to do on the ship. There never is. Nothing is as luxurious as _Titanic_ , not even a year later. _Lusitania_ came the closest, but it's almost been a month since she underwent modifications, permitting guns to be mounted and ammo holds and elevators installed. Battleship.

And on ships, you don't usually have anything to do except to talk to new people to pass the time. Talk about what, he doesn't know. He is not really fond of people. Not now. He maintains his distance. He remembers what happened last time he got "close" to a passenger.

He hears something called talking motion pictures among the gossip that he picks up. Is that really possible? He's heard of something along the lines of a gramophone, seen a live model, no, an actual gramophone, during his dinner on Titanic. Something to do with the Edison Company or something in America. Were they going to do that? Show people moving _and_ talking on screen? How was that possible?

Everything is possible, he reminds himself. People said that _Titanic_ couldn't sink. But it did, on its maiden voyage.

He certainly gets about, gets to hear things. And he's glad to be in West, or about to be, at least. Europe is going downhill, and everyone is claiming a cake piece of it like they did with Africa and India. No sooner had the war in Eastern Europe subdued that another had to spring up within a month. Sometimes, he finds it out of his depth. What is going on with the world? Everybody is either shut up or confused about it. The French and German were signing secret treaties like teacher's remarks in a grammar school. Out of nowhere, there would be a bombing, and people would cry and then they would forget about it in a day or two.

In such a situation, one couldn't help but migrate to the West in search for peace. Like he was. Although his situation was not borne out of political crisis.

He knows that he is a failed mate; one of the most important duties that you sign up for when you Bond is that you have to keep your mate safe, no matter what, whether you are an Alpha or an Omega. That entails keeping yourself safe. Mating and Bonding takes away so much strength that it is near impossible for your Bonded to live without you. For an Alpha, it's the hurt of his bruised ego and recklessness, which makes them commit suicide; for an Omega, it's the sorrow that comes over from pining. Either way, one mate dies without the other. It sounds almost supernatural, it does. In some cases, it is; there's more "supernatural beliefs" about the Bond. More than ninety percent of the Alphas take women as their life partners; they never really see an Omega to be able to claim them as their mates. People believe that a Bond surpasses all physical rules of the world, and other such stupid things. But they are only folklores and rumours.

What the truth is that a mate can go to any lengths to save his Bonded.

He didn't do. He could've tried more that night; if only he had found him, he could have saved himself too, even if it sounds ridiculous, by sustaining the last reserves of his energy with the energy of the seam between them.

There's no point, going where he's going. He's read the newspapers, scavenged it from dumpsters. He isn't alive. Can't be.

His Bond tells him otherwise. Newspapers lie all the time.

The sound of the waves breaking against the structure of the ship is not that deafening any more. The magnificent sunset pulls into sharp relief the light and the dark, the outlines of the horizon he is set for. If he finds what he's looking for, it'll kill him. If he doesn't, it'll kill him anyway.

* * *

The last time he came here, he was in an entirely different shape. He was wrapped up in a blanket, still fighting every last thing on God's green and cruel earth. He was angry for having survived at all, with the knowledge that his Bonded was dead, claimed by the suction of the ship. He had been a wreck. He still is a wreck.

Now, he towers over all, watching over the docks and the Cunard Pier from the boat deck. The New York harbour has never seemed so gloomy and optimistic at the same time. He taps his finger on the railing.

He knows what he is going to do. He knows saying exactly what will make it faster. Since fast is what he needs now.

He might not have a ticket, but that will be unimportant when they hear what his name is.

He goes to the immigration office and when an immigration officer glances at him and utters, "You name, sir?"

"Sherlock Holmes." His voice is steady but he can't help a smirk. The officer eyes him twice, and he is led to a corner.


	24. Lazarus

Sherlock's fingers tremble as he cups Tom's head and pats his back when the boy chokes on his milk a little. The infant stares up at him beseechingly, as if blaming Sherlock for his discomfort.

"Well, it's not _my_ fault!" Sherlock snaps, "the milk isn't going anywhere, so you might want to slow down a bit."

Tom's imploring face instantly turns sulky upon hearing his mother's tone and he refuses milk. Sherlock sighs exasperatedly.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't be dramatic. Drink this. You'll have your next feeding after twelve hours."

Tom looks up at him cluelessly. Sherlock feels, for the umpteenth time, stupid for talking to an infant. He curls into Tom protectively and presses him to his bosom as another pothole makes the car give away under them for a bit before the journey continues smoothly. Sherlock gives the man across his seat a furtive glance, and peeks into his sweating palms.

"A medical condition, I'm afraid," says Von Bork slyly, eyeing Sherlock's gaze.

"It's disgusting."

Von Bork leans forward to pat Tom's golden hair. Sherlock tries to move away, but in vain. The infant looks at Von Bork with wide, curious eyes as Von Bork smiles down at him, "The whole world is wet to my touch, after all."

Tom lets out a gurgle and coughs a bit. Von Bork straightens up, wiping his palms as Sherlock stares at him with intense loathing, "I like him."

Unconsciously, Sherlock presses Tom closer to his chest as the infant is lulled into sleep by its mother's scent. Von Bork looks away, smiling to himself.

"The whole of Europe is preparing for a marvellous summer," said Von Bork, his rude German accent slipping away and Sherlock can spot a strange mixture of Cockney and Danish in it as he goes on. It's hard to tell whether he is slipping or whether he's just misleading Sherlock into concentrating on determining his accent, "as are the happy mother-and-son."

Sherlock is almost about to deny Tom's link to him, but he realises that he's given himself away before that.

"What is it you want?" he asks, never the one to mince words.

"The torch of war is smouldering; a spark will set it alight. But of course, no one wants to make a war, do they?"

Von Bork is staring at his gravid chest. Sherlock straightens up in his chair proudly, "Will you please look away, Mr. Von Bork? It does not fit a gentleman."

"But it does fit an Alpha," Von Bork smirks, "wouldn't you agree on that?"

Sherlock has the sudden, inexplicable urge to show him his bond bite, throw the fact that he was still Bonded to John, regardless of his death, right in his face. But he doesn't. He's spent too long being a reckless Omega. Not anymore. Not with Tom.

"Think about it, Sherlock—"

"—I'd prefer," Sherlock edges away from the man, "if you called me Altamont."

With a glint of decision in Von Bork's eyes, he slides off his seat and sits down beside Sherlock, still in the moving vehicle. Sherlock can see the landscape changing now. The civilisation of city is running past him, slowly transforming into lights and cranes peeking around the skyline. If the window were open, Sherlock might have been able to smell the sea too. They are not far from Boston Harbour. Von Bork's one hand lingers dangerously close to Sherlock's left breast.

"Think of it, Mr. Holmes. You'd have to hide your gender from the world, or you'll perish within a week. But if you are to hide your gender from your boy as too curb the doubts and the inconsistencies, what will you do during your Estrus?"

Sherlock feels a jump in his jaw, his eyes glaring at Von Bork's offending hand, "I think that is of no concern of yours, Mr. Von Bork."

"Oh I think you think rather well," Von Bork smiles and gives his left breast a squeeze, "such as about how dissatisfactory your Heats must be. Hoarding loads of suppressants while ignoring your baser needs, the need to _submit_ to an Alpha, to be claimed," at this point, he gives his swollen nipple a pinch and Sherlock watches him interestedly.

"Are you looking to fill that position yourself then," Sherlock says, keeping his voice unaffected. Von Bork's attention is completely on his nipple. He's licking his lip and then he looks up at Sherlock, his gaze reminding him of the dark possessiveness of a typical Alpha, "if we reach Europe and enjoy the _marvellous_ summer free from any interference," he bends down and all pretense of the smirk leaves his face, "just like you are imagining it?"

Von Bork's gaze drops down. He flicks out a tongue and takes Sherlock's left breast in his grip, teasing it with his mouth, "I believe I am."

Sherlock smirks, letting out a small moan of pleasure as the Alpha takes his nipple between his teeth and crushes it between his teeth, "Where are we going then?"

Sherlock runs his hand on Von Bork's bald skull and suddenly grips it in his arm, threatening to crack his spine if he ventures his busy mouth any further. Von Bork chokes and tries to relieve the pressure on his jugular, but Sherlock's grip is too strong for an Omega, "Nobody touches me before I get what I want."

"I assure y. . ." a wheeze here, ". . . I'm giving. . ." cough, "you precisely that. . ."

"Stop!"

Von Bork struggles against Sherlock, but Sherlock only suffocates him harder, "So tell me, Mr. Von Bork, where are we really going? Do not think I did not check the legitimacy of our tickets. SS Alaunia has already sailed for Liverpool and there isn't another liner into the Continent from Boston till next Tuesday. So where were we really going?"

Von Bork lets out a choked sound, at which Sherlock draws closer, "What was that?"

Von Bork's face, previously pale, has now begun to turn red. His eyes are turning redder too, as Sherlock cuts the oxygen supply at the right place, "Did you really think that I was that Omega who you could defile and then use to accomplish your own ends?"

And then, beside him, on the car seat, Tom lets out a gasp, and Sherlock abruptly breaks away from what he was almost about to do. He blinks and looks at Von Bork, his chest heaving. The Alpha across his pants and wheezes, undoes his collar and opens the window in order to breathe in the scent of the sea. Sherlock is completely disarmed, his weapons being thrown in the boot of the car as a precaution. He buttons his collar and takes his son in his arms, cooing quietly. Tom falls asleep again and Sherlock shields him before facing the Alpha.

"Moran works under you, I know it already. The places he's travelled to in Europe are all naught but epicentres of unrest. You are intent upon starting war," he observes, as the Alpha's choking dies away, "what have I got to do with it? Why are you constantly involving me?"

As Von Bork regains his breath, he smiles. It is odd, for an Alpha not to be enraged after the Omega has rejected their advances. It is odd indeed, "You escaped the good Colonel once," he says, still wincing at Sherlock's attempts to strangle him to death, "you seemed quite intent on foiling his attempts. Pray tell me, why is that so?"

Sherlock doesn't risk a glance at his boy, "Would you want war?"

Von Bork smiles broadly, "Why not? I'll want whatever I get profit from."

"Then pray tell," Sherlock seethes, "why do you want _me_?"

"I help you, you help me. I will help you through your Estrus so that you hide your gender from the rest of the world, keep all that sexual dissatisfaction from keeping your brain functioning at optimum. You'll help me get to a certain person I name after you accept the deal. Fair, don't you think?"

"Hardly. So, in a nutshell," Sherlock drawls, pulling close his shirt to take care that his skin is hidden well, "you want to fuck me in exchange for me working myself up to some other person like you? I must have missed 'fair' somewhere."

"You word it rather. . . brazenly, Mr. Holmes," Von Bork says with a smirk, "Such language."

Sherlock watches him carefully. "I am already Bonded. Your act of trying to knot me and then bite me with my consent will break the Bond."

"Oh no, I won't Bond with you," Von Bork says with a chuckle, "I don't need the burden of a child, however adorable, do I?" He jerks his thumb towards Tom, who's still sleeping and Sherlock can see his little chest going up and coming down rhythmically, keeping life pumped into him, "Oh don't tell me that you don't love it, Mr. Holmes. Letting all that anger out, all that frustration of not being with an Alpha, of not _being_ an Alpha, because that's what life is, unfair. More such for an Omega. We could be of so much help to each other, if only you'd not try and deny me."

Sherlock looks down, thinking of the last time someone had said that to him. And then with sudden decision written upon his face, he looks up, "What's the man's name?"

Von Bork smirks and sits down beside Sherlock. If only there hadn't been Tom with them, Sherlock would've moved away instantly, "Let's seal the deal first, shall we?"

Sherlock swallows the bile and takes Von Bork's jaw in his palms. Briefly thinks of twisting it and snapping his neck. And then inches forward to kiss the lips that tasted and felt nothing like John's.

 

* * *

 

"Where's the man?"

"Right along this way, sir. I'll lead the way. I wouldn't call him a. . . well, match, he's bit of a ruffian, but. . ."

"Thank you, officer," Mycroft drawls tiredly, "I believe I can handle this."

The officer, immediately intimidated by Mycroft's manner, stutters a quick apology and excuses himself out of harm's way. The constable twists a rusted iron key—the metals near docks were never really protected well—and he ushers Mycroft inside.

For a moment, Mycroft stares at the man across him. Small, tanned, blond. His mouth opens and shuts close as he staggers backwards, He blinks several times. This is something he had never expected. He wasn't sure what he had expected when he had given out _Wanted_ posters of Sherlock even after his "death". But he has never expected—this.

He sucks in a long and painful breath. The prisoner doesn't even look up. Before he can, Mycroft steps out of the cell. The constable hurries out of there, "No good?"

Mycroft stares into a distance, "Fetch my men. Have them keep guard outside the cell."

The constable gives the escort officer an ominous look and they both hurry out with a duet of "yes, sir".

"So, that ain't Sherlock Holmes?"

"That guy is dead, man. I read it in the papers. Wasn't he in that ship thing, Omega screwing over his Alpha with claims of rape or somethin'?"

"Well, that shit can't be an Omega. I didn't smell it on him. That is a sure-shot Alpha sitting inside claiming himself to be Sherlock Holmes."

"Dunno. The top guys are supposed to be diggin' the whole fucking thing up, we might as well brag about it, yeah?"

The constable laughed, "Yeah sure."

 

* * *

 

When the cell is locked behind him, and the Special Force on guard, allowing no officer close, Mycroft finally approaches the pitiable man. His hair is cropped shorter than it used to be. His figure healthier and sturdier and somehow smaller, as if curled into a ball of guilt. His arms tanned golden, clashing with the blond skin of his chest. But the blue eyes have not lost their lustre or depth.

"John," Mycroft utters in a hollow voice in a manner of greeting. Despite all that has passed between them, John still offers him a polite smile.

"Mycroft. I thought you'd come down here—"

Before Mycroft can stop himself, his fist attacks John's jaw. John doesn't defend himself at all, lets himself take the blow, and then winces as he feels the sting of his ring.

"Missed," is all he says, pointing to his nose.

In an instant, Mycroft hauls John to his feet with the anger of a family Alpha, disregarding the state of him and his clothes. John remains limp in his grip, "You! You killed my brother! Had you not been there, he'd have been with me, and he'd have been safe!"

John watches him challengingly, but Mycroft can see the non-resistance crumbling away. Mycroft hadn't realised just how dead John's eyes had been until there was joy and hope filled in them, "So, he's alive." It's barely a whisper, but it's not the one of slightest disbelief. Mycroft wonders for one moment, if John really knows Sherlock in those three days better than he knew of his brother for all of his life.

Mycroft releases him, remembering that John was his Bonded. He has an urge to kill John Watson now, but he doesn't, "Alive or not, you'll not get to him again."

Mycroft turns his back to John and John straightens up, "I'm his Alpha."

Mycroft glances at his state, "But he's not your Omega. And he's off the radar. So you can't find him."

"But I want to find him," John's voice his quiet, but a lot more resolute and stubborn than it lets on, "I will find him. I saved up for this and the return journey, and I won't go back without him."

Mycroft laughs, "Go back where? And how will Sherlock, being a civilian, accompany you to your base and stay there?" Mycroft approaches John, who is not afraid of his dominating stature in the slightest, unlike the senators, "Yes, I can see clearly that you are on leave. Poor way to spend them, Mr. Watson, considering your finances are practically non-existent."

Mycroft turns to leave when he hears John's voice, "I love him. I know you don't see love equivalent to three days, but I did. I still do. And you're the only way I can find him."

Mycroft grits his teeth, closes his eyes, but then faces John, "What happened last time? If you claim to "love" my brother, where were you when he gave his account of the sinking in Washington? Where was your _love_ then? You weren't there when he needed you the most."

John looks away, "I wasn't admitted entrance into United States. My own fault, of course."

Mycroft squints, "How do you mean?"

John gives a laugh that's mostly hollow, "You remember those damned health checks at the Southampton White Star Line Pier? No don't bother, peerage were welcomed aboard by the Captain himself. Third Class passengers were inspected for ailments and physical impairments that could've led to them being refused entry to the States—not a prospect that the White Star Line wished to see, of course, as it would have to carry them back across the Atlantic. As they did to me."

"So _this_ is your explanation?" Mycroft nods seriously, "You were. . . how could they. . . you must've been. . .?"

"Nearly dying? Yeah, but I made it as the ship reached the Cunard dock. Apparently, laws are stronger than the Alpha-Omega instincts."

Mycroft's jaw set a hard line, "Indeed. You cannot pass off everything as the demands of your gender."

John gave him a wry smile, "Perhaps. For two years I've tried to make enough money and spent a lot of them on my medication and enlistment. Whatever I managed to save, I spent for three tickets, one into US, and two going out. I'll be AWOL if I stay away for long. I'll find Sherlock," the name sends a visible shiver through John, "with or without your help. But without will take longer."

Mycroft studies him, and then calls out, "Constable!" John's face falls.

The constable enters, flustered, "Yes, sir?"

"Kindly give Mr. Watson back his belongings and discharge him immediately. And do be quick and quiet about it."

The constable peers at John, whose face lights up again—and he notices that his name isn't Holmes, "Right away, sir."

 

* * *

 

"Are you married?"

Von Bork snaps out of the post-orgasmic aftermath, raises his head from the Bond bite that has yet not faded and looks at an extremely spent and sated Sherlock Holmes beneath him. They have this routine every day now. Seven nights a week, "What?!"

It's not like Sherlock likes small talk. Sex is now, for him, a quick-fix-forget-about-it thing. Of late, he's started to understand that if he has to bring a change in that Alpha, he'll have to delve deeper. Von Bork won't do things for him under the spell of seduction, but under the spell of that evil unspeakable word, of four letters, which maidens dream of and men always deny until they encounter it.

For the sake of something greater, he can endure small talk after all.

Von Bork is still inside him, fondling his breasts gently and he moans softly at the sensation when the gentle touch of fingers brush against the nipples.

"I asked you if you are married."

The Alpha shifts a little, and Sherlock feels his still inflated member move a little inside him, "Yes."

"Where is she?"

"Why?"

"I want to write a letter to her to tell her of your infidelity," Sherlock drawls sarcastically, kissing the Alpha atop him, "and to tell her how good you are in bed and that she's missing a lot of action."

"Seems to me like a fine goal," Von Bork kisses him back, "What would you write in that letter? How good am I in bed?"

"Let's have another go and you'll find out," Sherlock says, moaning softly when he feels the Alpha's hand encroach on his prick.

"When is your Estrus?" Von Bork asks instead, grinding his hips into Sherlock a little bit and making them both groan together.

"Next week," Sherlock says thoughtfully, "As much as I've enjoyed the coitus, I must ask you not to bite me, even when it gets too overwhelming."

"I can control myself," he says thickly as he continues to scent him. Sherlock closes his eyes and threads his fingers through his hair, kissing the side of his head gently, "But you  _reek_ of some other Alpha," he growls, looking at Sherlock's bond bite hatefully, "I might not be able to resist putting _my_ claim on you."

"So, your wife," Sherlock pants, changing the subject, "Does she know what you do?"

"No."

"Do you feel guilty when you go and see her?"

Von Bork sucks on the other part of Sherlock's neck, where John's bond bite isn't there, "Perhaps."

"You've got kids?"

"Two daughters."

"Where?"

"It is so odd," Von Bork mutters after a long pause.

"What is?"

"You tried to kill me."

"Well, you certainly didn't mind," Sherlock replies archly, "seeing as you treated me so well after that."

"And yet you're being so normal about it," he examines.

"I was just taking out my frustration on you, love."

"Sure, if that's what you want."

"It's what I need," Sherlock lies easily, "How long I've longed for this—the claim of a Alpha on my body, an Alpha—like you—inside me. For two years I've not engaged in coitus. And now I want more. And more."

Von Bork regards this, "I wonder how you'll be during your Heats."

Sherlock chuckles softly, nuzzling against Von Bork's temple, "You'll soon find out. You cannot leave the house on those three days. You know that; the only thing I'll ask of you is to take care of Tom during those days. Tell you what, leave your family—be with me. Come at nights, leave in the morning, except during my Estrus days," Sherlock does not even bat an eyelash when he says that, "You're the Alpha I should've had."

Von Bork smiles, but doesn't say anything much. He looks at him distrustfully—then begins to pull himself out, but Sherlock stops him with a touch on his arm.

"Stay inside me. For tonight. I like us joined together."

Von Bork blinks in surprise, and then smirks, "A man has to pull out to go in again, hasn't he?"

Sherlock smirks and spreads his legs wider. The softening prick slides out of him easily, "Damn right he does."

He forces the Alpha onto the bed in a show of possessiveness and takes his prick in his mouth, sucking and pressing against it with his tongue. The taste of him is horrible, but Von Bork sighs in pleasure and that's all Sherlock needs to know. Sherlock goes down harder on him as the Alpha prick becomes harder in his mouth and Sherlock has to suppress his gag reflex. He snatches a packet of French safes, tugging it slowly apart, knowing that the Alpha enjoyed watching him like this. He slips it on him and strokes him gently, "Will you know tell me the name of that person? The person you were telling me about during the journey. My end of the deal."

"Don't make me come yet," is all he groans, but Sherlock growls.

"What is the name?"

"M-Mycroft Holmes!"

Sherlock removes his hand and opens his legs eagerly for the Alpha, sitting on all fours for him, "come on, take me. I want you in."

Von Bork does.


	25. I'm Comin', Love

The journey through Pennsylvania Avenue is mostly quiet. Neither Alpha acknowledges the other's presence as the car rides in silence past the various government buildings. John taps his fingers on his knee, not knowing whether Mycroft is taking him to a place of detention.

They get down near 17th Street. John clambers out of the weary car ride—he's never been in one, except for an uncomfortable lorry ride—and looks up at the large building. The streets are so wide that he is, for a moment, unable to figure out how or where to stand.

Finally, Mycroft gets out, and leads an awed John inside the State, War and Navy Building, "Close your mouth," is all he says, "No need to be impressed. The architecture is truly a monstrosity."

Finally, the door of Mycroft's office closes behind them, and Mycroft motions him into a chair. John watches the place warily. Mycroft peacefully settles across him and starts with some paperwork. John watches him silently as minutes trickle by, and Mycroft doesn't pay him any heed.

"You never went back to London," is all John says after fifteen minutes of tension and avoidance. Mycroft pauses in his writing, but otherwise doesn't look up, "Why?"

"May I ask, what prompts that question in your mind?" Mycroft asks quietly. John looks away.

"I thought you'd have returned, after. . . well, I certainly didn't believe you would've given Sherlock away back to that penguin after everything. You lived in London, so I thought it logical that you went back. I located the estate but. . . well, it was sold. . . well, auctioned—"

He stops when he sees the clenching in Mycroft's fists at the word 'auction', of the reminder that all their memories are seized by banks, "The estate was mortgaged, something we hoped to settle with Sherlock's betrothal to Trevor. But Trevor is dead now—"

"Dead?" John enquires sharply, "I didn't read _that_. But I did read of—"

"Of Sherlock making an exposé? And then faking his death to deepen the guilt on Victor Trevor, yes. That was a splendid event," for a second, there's almost a proud smile on Mycroft's face.

John gives an untimely chuckle, thinking of the 'fake death' murder they had solved aboard the Titanic, "Yeah, only Sherlock can do that."

Mycroft shoots him a look that John mostly ignores, "And then?"

"That's where the trail lies cold. Sherlock disappeared into thin air. I traced him till one week succeeding the exposé, and then he disappeared. I didn't have much influence back then, so I wasn't able to send people after him," his face turns graver, "I don't know what kind of people he might have fallen with. He is an immature Omega who hadn't seen the world at all, and. . ."

John waits, hardly daring to breathe. Where might Sherlock be now, and what horrors must he be facing now?

". . . And then came his supposed death."

John inhales sharply, "How did you know he was alive?"

"The body was that of an Alpha," Mycroft says, "The NYPD were too dense to figure it out."

At this, John looks shell-shocked, "Wait, Sherlock _killed_ someone?"

Mycroft looks at John as if he's never considered that avenue. He blinks and frowns as John keeps his eyes on him. He shakes his head, "Look, Mycroft. Sherlock can never _kill_ anyone. He's. . . he _knows_ the sanctity of a human life—"

"Perhaps," Mycroft's face hardens back, "desperate times. . . call for desperate measures."

John lets out a humourless laugh, but dismisses the topic altogether. He isn't here to sit in an office and figure out whether Sherlock really can. . . When he meets him again, he can hear it from his own lips.

Before pressing them to his own, John thinks, with a leap of his heart.

"So, the trail went cold after his "death"?"

Mycroft bites his lip, and then rises from his chair. Fishes around for something in a cabinet as John watches patiently. Mycroft seems to find something and passes it to John, "There you go."

John opens it. It's a collection of newspaper clippings, a photograph of a police report dates September 2nd, 1912. No post mortem report, just the name: Charles John Basil, aged 17 and nine months from January sixth.

"That's the official investigation report, closed a week after the death. I don't know why Sherlock would do something drastic as that, seeing as he had already ruined Victor. And if he was on the run from something, because that's what it looks like—faking death to avoid enemies, it's an old trick—I can only imagine the seriousness of the situation he must have been in to do something so severe."

"He's reckless, but he's clever too. He must have escaped," is all John can mutter in admiration and a little bit of pride. Mycroft coughs pointedly at the present tense.

"But I hardly see any point of you hoping that he'll come right back to you after having forgotten you for two years."

"He took my name," is all John mutters to him, pointing to the name 'Charles John Basil'; a proof of Sherlock's faithfulness when a shard of ice pierces through his heart at Mycroft's words.

"You might hold to your chest what you had for three days, but if something like _Titanic_ could founder, it's not hard to assume that the mating over three days could too."

"Oh, so you're comparing a Bond to a ship now, are you?" John challenges.

"It was considered unsinkable," Mycroft exemplifies, "You're too misguided by folklore, John. Nothing stays forever."

"Not all things," John corrects him stubbornly.

A sigh. "I know my brother. Although I wouldn't say that he is very adept at moving on, going by the way he refused to part with a poison oak shrub he had planted in the backyard of our estate, it's likely that three days of a fling have been overcome by the need to protect himself and to make his way in this harsh world. Besides, he thinks you were claimed by the _Titanic_."

John frowns at Mycroft, but wills himself to stay calm.

"How do you know that Sherlock hasn't moved on from you, John?"

John purses his lips and speaks after a long time, "He's Bonded to me."

"With his consent, another Alpha can Bond with him by knotting and then—"

"Stop," John growls, and Mycroft clicks his mouth shut, "I don't want to hear anything."

Mycroft shrugs, "Survival of the fittest. That is nature, John. Bonds are not as permanent as the folklore makes them out to be."

John looks away, "If I could be faithful to him all this time, so can he. I wouldn't worry about that. The only thing I'd worry about—is his safety. He's—I know he can take care of himself, just that, he," John shakes his head, reality gripping him cold and hard. What a failure of an Alpha he's been, "he is too reckless."

"You should worry about that too, John. You were forced to stay faithful to him—by biology. An Alpha is Bonded to an Omega, not the other way round, so as to "calm the wildness". Sherlock can. . . well, whatever he does, he can keep his Bond to you. Nature's way of ensuring that more and more offspring are—"

"One more word, and I'll end up doing something both of us will regret."

"Very well," Mycroft acquiesces, seeing that he is simply angering John more and more, "And if I turn out to be right, what will you do then?"

There's no change in John's demeanour—which is odd because his eyes are always so expressive. And then, comes a low Alpha growl, angry and betrayed, remembering the hurt Sherlock had felt when Mycroft had set John up as a cheating spouse, "I don't plan that ahead, Mycroft."

Mycroft nods. Reasonable enough, and who is he to argue? "How do you propose we start?"

John sags against his chair. Try finding Sherlock in a country like United States.

"We know that he hasn't left the country. If he did, my people would've alerted me to it instantly, like what happened with you."

John nods, understanding, "That leaves us. . . pretty much the rest of the country. Shouldn't take much time."

"John—" Mycroft begins, but he cuts across him.

"What—why didn't _you_ search for him? He's your brother."

Mycroft's mouth does a funny thing at that, which he conceals behind a hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

"He renounced me the day he chose you."

For one second, John looks stung, and then his features harden and become bland, "He loved you."

"If he desired, he could have stuck with me the day he gave his statement. He values his freedom far more. . . you gave him that."

John seems to consider this, and then clears this throat, "Alright, so you're saying that you haven't tried to search for him even once?"

"Let's lay that to rest," Mycroft closes the files and rests his elbows on the desk, "what do you think Sherlock would do in America?"

John shrugs unhelpfully, "You must know. I was with him for three days; you, on the other hand, were with him for practically his entire life."

"And yet your relation to him is stronger, as you claim. _Bond_ ," Mycroft exclaims distastefully as if the word ought to be purged from the dictionary.

John shakes his head, "I did not say that. Besides, you're closest to his brain. You'll know."

"You're closer to his heart," Mycroft admits, "You'll know his instincts better than I would."

John goes back to the moment when he had proposed to Sherlock to elope. That was right before their lives had been steered into separation. There's in fact, yes it's there. What Sherlock wanted, what he had in his heart. In the last conversation that they had had. When the stern of the _Titanic_ was at sixty degrees, John had said, about university, about medical college, about crimes.

"He liked solving crimes," John supplies. Mycroft looks stunned for a moment, at the horrendous choice of occupation for an Omega, but recovers within a second, "go on."

"There was this fraud-slash-murder on the ship," he struggles to remember the details, "Sherlock got them arrested by—by proving the charges against them. If there's anything Sherlock would do, it would be—he'd be some sort of a criminal agent or a detective."

"Detective?" Mycroft repeats dubiously.

"Yes, a really clever one, a good one. And. . ." John thinks hard, feeling overwhelmed that he's got something, a step closer to Sherlock, "that'd be hard to miss the attention of newspapers—a local newspaper perhaps. I'll. . . I'll know in a minute if you can dig something up like that."

Mycroft is staring at him intently, just like Sherlock used to—and it's starting to become vaguely disconcerting. John is about to open his mouth to ask if there's something wrong when a phone rings, thankfully shattering the unbearable silence.

Mycroft picks up the earpiece, brings it to his ear, "Yes?"

John can hear a gentle murmuring from the other line, and then Mycroft signals him to leave for some time. John looks at him suspiciously, but leaves anyway. There's gratefulness in his eyes, before Mycroft looks away and starts speaking into the mouthpiece.

 

* * *

 

"Not now," Sherlock growls as Erik Von Bork—Sherlock isn't sure if that is his real name, but he continues calling him Von Bork in his mind—continues to scent him from behind him. It's slightly disconcerting to him how John and his intermixed scent are slowly wafted away as Von Bork continues to rub against his backside, smelling the rich, musky odour of the heat-fuelled hormones. Sherlock tries to push it away and makes the gesture affectionate—but serious enough.

They're in Sherlock's old flat in Boston, the one he used as his base while he had been working for McCarthy. The next wave of Heat is due two hours—Sherlock had miscalculated and the Heat began earlier than he had expected it to be—and with the peculiar sustenance intuition that comes over an Alpha after a round of mating, Von Bork settles for making poached eggs, the sound of which is familiar to Tom by now. The infant—now quite sure of his hand movements and able to bang the steel mug right on Sherlock's head—instantly turns towards the source of the sound and points to it.

"Yes I know, poached eggs," he rolls his eyes, "Yes, you love the disgusting runny yolk."

Tom tries to roll his eyes, trying to imitate Sherlock. Fails. He throws a sulk at not being able to do such a simple thing. His cries have become silent, unlike when he was nine months old. More like John's stoic nature perhaps, Sherlock thinks automatically.

When Tom is unhappy, he makes it known to everyone in the house, much to Von Bork's displeasure. The two hours between the waves of heat-fuelled lust that Sherlock is supposed to have spent as only a watch on Tom with a pistol tucked away under the mattress of the sofa if Von Bork even touched him without Sherlock's permission is spent taking care of Tom, who is burning up. Sherlock's hands shake uncontrollably as he feeds Tom the medicine. Tom looks up at him, his eyes watery and sad, even heartbroken, and it twists something dark inside Sherlock, the thought that he had so selfishly given himself away to an Alpha while in Heat and ignored Tom's discomfort. Sherlock tries to keep off panic, of admitting him into ER over possibly a common cold and all sorts of crazy things that are coming into his mind. Despite the sort of screech that he had made a few minutes ago, Tom looks offended as Sherlock waves the bitter potion in front of his little mouth.

"Just this last spoon," Sherlock says tiredly. "Please," he tries.

Tom, all the while sobbing quietly, looks like he's giving it a sniff, and then fervently refuses the liquid. Sherlock splays one large palm against his tiny skull, petting his soft, silky hair, knowing that he likes it too much to ignore his mother. But Tom is way too bossy even for someone who's down with fever.

"Keep doing that," comes Von Bork's voice, who has now retired to the sitting room and relishing the eggs, "he'll never take the medicine."

Sherlock pauses, gaining the steadiness of his hands, "Maybe, you can show me," when he turns to Von Bork, he looks at him with cool interest and challenge. Von Bork returns his expression in kind.

"I have been a father," he says.

"Don't say that," Sherlock chuckles, "It makes you sound old."

He raises one eyebrow, "We'll see about that later, won't we? Now go rest on the sofa, I'll see to this troublesome child."

Tom gives him the look that acutely says _my own mother couldn't get me to take the medicine, how will you?_ Without asking, Von Bork takes the spoon from Sherlock's hands and waves the spoon carefully around him like a drone. He fusses and kicks his legs, frustrated at being unable to communicate anything across verbally except 'da-da' and 'no' and 'go' and not being able to let the man in front of him understand his dislike. Von Bork softly chuckles and begins to speak to him, not baby-talk. Just how. . . normal adults talk, and Sherlock is impressed by the difference it makes.

"I'll need those suppressants," Sherlock finally says as Tom looks betrayed that _Mr. Von Bork_ had lied to him about the taste. He rises and scoops Tom up in his lap, feeling the soft, smooth skin burning, "He's feverish."

"There's a Beta couple downstairs," Von Bork says, not keen to miss a single round of coitus, "They can keep him for tonight."

Sherlock chuckles, "I thought you were a father."

"I think I left out 'paranoid'."

"So you did. But I'm not going to leave my fever-down boy with some strangers."

Von Bork shrugs, "Well enough. One day less, consider that in your calculations."

Sherlock changes his plans for the night as Von Bork turns away with a devilish smirk and closes the door behind him. Feeling his abused entrance with a wince, Sherlock puts Tom down and looks at his suppressants with distaste now. Without another thought, he devours them.

 

* * *

 

"Altamont?" John repeats.

It's been a week since they began their 'Quest for Sherlock Holmes. Their search for a rude detective who is unquestionably efficient with his analysis of crimes concludes with one Irish-American unofficial detective, John Altamont who hails from Chicago. There is the heinous case of a missing tea cup, of a bank robbery and of the murders of a mother-daughter family where he stayed as a tenant in.

"Matches. Height six feet, raven-haired, pale complexion, obviously posh 'git' and certainly not an immigrant, claims the sub-inspector," Mycroft chants, "parades as an Alpha. He always wanted to be an Alpha."

"Can he do that?" John says dubiously, ignoring Mycroft's last statement, "Sherlock is—"

"An Omega who'll be affected by Alpha scent around him. Sherlock controlled himself around Alphas all the time, if you remember. No need to be so. . ." he trails off.

John frowns at Mycroft before continuing with his analysis, "Well, it's a dead end. Assuming that Sherlock is this Altamont person—"

"—he's run off yet again," Mycroft finishes, "and is a suspect in the murder of Martha and Louise Jefferson."

"Christ," John buries his face in his hands. Mycroft heaves a tired sigh and moves on, "However, you might find his trail."

He looks up, "Sorry?"

Mycroft tosses the files on his desk, "I had a word with the kind Captain the day before yesterday. 'Altamont', being an Irish-American, frequented a club called the Breckenridge's. I can't imagine why he'd lower himself to that but it's a start."

John looks at Mycroft directly, "So, when do I go down?"

Mycroft smirks at his willingness, "Not even a briefing, _soldier_?"

"I know how to do an Irish accent," John informs him, ". . . somewhat."

"That's what you'll do, would you?" Mycroft chuckles, "Go down to them, pretend that you moved in and then ask them about Altamont, and they'll happily give you the information?"

"I like it," John replies drily, "nice and easy to remember."

Mycroft's clenches his jaw, "Oh yes. Pray tell me what your avenue of action would be?"

John seems a little lost for words, but he begins resolutely, "Well, I can provide a story of a car breakdown, so that they accept me into the club without much question. I'll begin chatting about Sherlock, make up some story. Sherlock must've been a recognisable character in there, if he was such a famous "unofficial" detective, and I'd say that Altamont was my long-since friend and that we were set to meet in some other place in Illinois. They're bound to give something, yeah? I mean, they may be fairly decent blokes, Irishmen."

Mycroft nods, contemplating this.

"And then I go to my next destination, and keep searching till I find Sherlock."

 Daring, risky is all Mycroft thinks, "And you expect me to finance your. . . expedition?"

John scans him, "I'll not run away with your money, if that's what you're implying. I will return with him, Mycroft. You're his brother, and you two have the full right to see each other."

"Very well then," Mycroft rises and John follows suit, "I suppose I have no choice but to trust you. Every time you enter or leave a city, you will dial me up with your next directions. And if you don't, I _will_ make it impossible for you to leave the country, John."

"I don't know why but I believe you," John replies coolly. "But if he does not want to see you, I will not be able to guarantee making the two of you meet."

Mycroft is stony-faced for a moment, and then he extends his hand, "Then we have an accord?"

John looks at his hand briefly, shakes, "Just one more thing. I'll require one more equipment."

"Yes?"

"A photograph of Sherlock."

Mycroft is a little surprised, for he frowns, "Photograph?

"I think they'd be idiots if they believed me with just a name. Besides who knows, Sherlock might have made every alias for every place he's settled in. So, do you have a photograph of him?"

Mycroft paces around, "All our belongings were claimed by the Titanic. . . but there's a newspaper cutting of Sherlock right before he disappeared. It's not very clear, but—"

"Good, I'll. . . have that," John says, his heart rate becoming sickeningly light and rapid. His fingers tremble and it curls around a fragile piece of paper detailing in cheap newsprint ink his face. The ink had been smudged, the paper old and crinkled. Sherlock's face is partly hidden by the collar of his coat and of the magnesium flashes of the cameras. John couldn't have named one flaw on him.

When he closes his fist, he can almost feel Sherlock seeping into his skin, burying himself into his very core. He briefly considers kissing the photo as if the contact could reach through paper and the hundred miles between them, and then he remembers Mycroft standing there, watching him, "I'll leave now. I'll set tomorrow morning by train."

"Until then," Mycroft utters, "Godspeed."

 _I'm coming, lov_ e, is all John thinks as he gets out of there, his primitive plan slowly developing towards more finesse.

 

* * *

 

The second day of Estrus is bearable, not far from blindly pleasurable. Erik slams down his prick hard into Sherlock again as he pants, writhes against the sheet, moaning and pleading, the guilt slowly eating away at the back of his head without even his knowing. For it's that one part of his biology, so foreign and yet so integral to him, the one part he hasn't been able to reconcile with.

"More," Sherlock demands breathlessly.

"You want more?" Erik grabs his hair and tugs at it, devouring Sherlock's mouth, "I'll give you more!"

"Oh yes," Sherlock begs, " _Harder_!"

They move against each other frantically, trying to hold onto something. Sherlock has his hands fisted in the bed sheets, rutting when Erik touches his dusky flushed prick. Erik mounts him and clamps down on his flesh, panting and wheezing and growling all the same. Sherlock is aware of the slap-and-thud of their hips and he simply joins in with more fervour. It's always so fast, and over so quickly, the heat-fuelled-sex, it leaves barely any time for intimacy that mating is supposed to bring, or was that just some other Alpha?

"I'm—oh, yes! Oh hell, yes. More, Erik, _more!_ "

"You like that?" Von Bork laughs, "You greedy little _bitch_?! God, you're so magnificent like this. . ."

Sherlock closes his eyes, "Feels so. . . oh, I'm— _I'm coming, love_. Oh God, I'm coming!"

The sensation is too unbelievably perfect. The feeling of something so huge, making him feel so stretched as Von Bork pushes the ballooned knot into Sherlock with a barely-contained groan of pleasure makes Sherlock's toes curl and makes him want to snap his legs shut. Sherlock opens his eyes to see him still atop him, eyes closed, breathing raspily as he rides out his climax like that, simply by feeling Sherlock clenching around him. There's no hot liquid gushing in him, the one feeling that truly comforted him during his first time, but still, an experienced Alpha is much preferred to one not so.

It takes him approximately four more minutes to collapse on top of a still knotted Sherlock and bury his nose in his neck. Sherlock cradles his head gently, kissing the crown and running a hand down his torso. Von Bork mumbles something incoherent, which makes Sherlock stir.

"What?"

Von Bork raises himself from the comfortable repose in Sherlock's neck when he says, "I think. . . I might be falling in love with you."

Sherlock smirks his victory, and kisses him slowly, an open-mouthed drag of lips over lips and tongues entwined together. Love, what a most fortunate two-edged sword, how convenient the lies and deception, "And I you."

Von Bork examines him, "Do you, now? Prove it to me then."

"Have me any way you want tonight. I'm yours," Sherlock offers hoarsely, but Von Bork simply chuckles, grinding against Sherlock a little and making him moan softly.

"All this _is_ already mine," he says, squeezing his breasts with both hands. Sherlock covers his hands with his palms and caresses his finger gently. To make his point, Von Bork fixes Sherlock with a sinful, predatory look, while he takes out a tongue and licks a nipple. The simple, sensuous act sends shivers of desire through Sherlock's entire body, "I'll run my tongue over your body and claim you so many times that that odour—that Bond bite," he says with revulsion, "will disappear into nothingness and all you'll remember is the touch of my hands on your body.

Sherlock gives a small inaudible cry as Von Bork pinches a nipple too hard but still manages in an even voice, "What would you. . . have me do, Erik?"

But the Alpha gives him a smirk and proceeds to take a breast in his mouth, lapping at it as thick, white milk leaks from it. Upon being given a dark look, Sherlock stutters, "It's a natural reaction."

But Von Bork continue to suckle the fluid down his throat eagerly while grinding their still knotted genitalia together. Sherlock's sighs and moans are again spilled into waste.

When Von Bork is finished with his ministrations, he gently pulls out of Sherlock and lays down beside him, "Do you. . . remember your brother, Sherlock?"

Sherlock makes a faux-face, "Mycroft. Ugh, I hate him. Don't ever remind me of him during our times together, Erik. It's annoying."

"Yes, I slipped up yesterday, but I promise," here he gives Sherlock another dark look that says that Sherlock better set his game straight, "I'll finish today."

"You want me to get you to Mycroft?"

"You want yourself to get me to Mycroft," Von Bork corrects, "which will also involve you wanting yourself to get yourself to Mycroft first."

"So I must go back to Mycroft? I'm better here," he snuggles into Von Bork, "with you."

"It's temporary, my dear," the man strokes his chin, "You'll come back, and I _will_ make sure of it."

Sherlock chuckles, "I'll always come back to you. which reminds me," he pulls himself out of Von Bork's grasp and reaches for a flask, "You need to drink this."

Von Bork peers at it, "What's this?"

"It's a much enhanced glucose formula, will keep up your energy during our next session."

Von Bork narrows his eyes, "Does that mean that I wasn't energetic during this?"

"Well, I'd have blamed it on age, but. . ." he eyes Von Bork's naked body, "you're a marvel."

The Alpha smirks, and slowly drinks it. The effects are almost immediate, because he hugs Sherlock's chest, mumbling some gibberish and then he is slowly asleep.

Sherlock glances at him, abandoning his lovesick expression for the sake of something more sensible, and then takes the suppressant pill so that he wouldn't be inconvenienced by Estrus for the rest of the day. He removes Von Bork's one hand from his breast, and lulls himself into sleep, hoping that Von Bork wouldn't remember anything of the conversation they had had after their climaxes. He'd go and get Tom from day care in the evening, nor trusting Von Bork with Tom at all.

After all, he had calculated the dosage, hadn't he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I thought we were near the end, we're NOT near the end yet. I'll keep this storyline till 1917, since that's when US stepped into the Great War, followed by an epilogue (I'll dare you to guess what the epilogue will be like but it'll be canon he he). We're in 1914 yet, but I'll speed things up.
> 
> And don't trust whatever I say ;) I might change it anytime when I start feeling uncomfortable about writing in the past


	26. Search For His Mate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I Thought I'd post this on 1st Jan, but then it always gets late
> 
> For the record, I forgot to mention that French safes aren't literal lock-safes made in France with patents written in French. They're the WWI-era term for condoms. Yes, birth control existed back then (but I'm not sure about pills and such), but it was viewed as progressive and women were still fighting for rights to birth control to be readily available to them in the US.
> 
> In this ABO universe, I'm twisting the fact a little so that only Alphas and Betas (all ABO are men, remember?) or women and Omegas accompanied with their Beta and Alpha partners have rights to buy condoms and etc from stores. A lone woman or Omega would be outright refused. Just another way for Alphas to control the use of contraceptives.

Washington DC, Tuesday, 3rd March, 1914, 9:35 am

John is packing his things into his small duffel bag. Each movement, however small, is precise, calculated, wasting no effort, every belonging of his accounted for. The dog tags around his neck clink together as he folds his sparse items into it. He can tell that Mycroft is watching from the doorway of his suite in the small motel that he has arranged for. With a clear of the throat, he straightens up, announcing non-verbally that he is finished.

Mycroft approaches him like a predator, but John isn't the one to be scared easily. He squares his shoulder, ready for an assault.

"Tell me, Mr. Watson," Mycroft says, "What do you intend to do when you find Sherlock?"

John swallows. He feels like he has had that answer ready for decades, "Ask his hand in marriage. Legalise our bond."

"Ah, domestic bliss," Mycroft smiles insincerely, as if ridiculing the idea of his brother settling down. John's lips twitch.

"What's funny? Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's what you intended for Sherlock two years ago."

Mycroft's smile dies down in an instant, "You're being extremely optimistic about Sherlock."

John wants to challenge Mycroft to tell him if he thinks that Sherlock had forsaken their Bond. He simply tells his stupid Alpha nature to shut the hell up.

"I am."

Mycroft looks at him, calculates, "And next?"

"When he says yes—"

"I'm not asking about the immediate future, John," Mycroft cuts across him, "What will you do when your leave ends? And more precisely, what will you do if your leave ends before you've found Sherlock?"

John has thought about it. John knows the risk. Yet this is the first time in months he has had the tiniest hope that isn't a fantasy of Sherlock being alive. He knows, he _believes_ that Sherlock is alive. He knows he is probably imagining it, because a bond is not an independent entity, but he can feel it strengthen at the thought of seeing Sherlock once again and completing the promises he had made to him. An Alpha always keeps his promises.

And yet, he doesn't know whether he'll be able to leave Sherlock to go back and do his duty. Mycroft knows this, and therefore he must have had something in his mind otherwise he wouldn't be pestering John with this on the eve of his quest.

"What are you proposing?" John asks bluntly.

Mycroft resists a smile, "Do you really want to go fight with the army? In the dust and the. . ." he winces, "the blood and the danger?"

"That's no concern of yours."

"Oh, I think what concerns my brother concerns me, John. To my best belief, Sherlock is still alive. An Omega death is not easily concealed and usually creates headlines and. . ." he falters, unable to continue that, "so, if you were to bring Sherlock back, I wouldn't be as cruel as to let my brother's hopes be risen again, only to crumble when you don't return in one piece, if you know what I mean."

"So must I leave the army too, now?" John says in disbelief. He knows Mycroft is right, but he cannot help but feel a tinge of anger at him for having pointed it out.

"That should be wiser because I will not see my brother like that for a second time. If you die in combat, he, being the extraordinarily stubborn soul that he is, will starve himself to death. So, you might want to reconsider your idea of going back to England and living the life of a soldier."

John's jaw sets into a hard frame, unyielding and stubborn as he draws in a sharp intake of breath. Mycroft thinks that he has won.

"And if I remember correctly from your little speech during the dinner party aboard the _Titanic_ , you wanted to become a doctor, didn't you?"

Suddenly, John is very still. Mycroft has him, damn him. The taller Alpha smirks, but John's immune to it, to such Alphas. He's got some of his commanding officers like that, even worse than what Mycroft can be.

"Good man," Mycroft says, and extends his hand. John eyes it warily, takes it and grips, sensing the power play even there, "Since you've refused any protection from my part, I will not doubt your. . . competence. But you must not dare take my trust in you for granted, John. If you do so, my actions will be remorseless to say the least."

"I'm saying this again, if Sherlock does not want to see you, then there's nothing I can do. I will not force him into it."

Mycroft looks down at him gravely, like at a child wearing his socks on his palms instead of his feet. John glares back at him, but then Mycroft nods, "One more thing."

He sets the briefcase on the bed and opens it, revealing a pistol and some cartridges.

"A last precaution," he says, handing John the gun, "I can see from your hands that you've had some practice at the shooting range."

"With rifles," John says, weighing the pistol. The damn thing can take a life and yet it is so light in his hands, "not with these."

"Go ahead, then," Mycroft says calmly, moving away from John, "on the wall."

John gapes at him. It's just possible that many people haven't said to Mycroft what he is about to say now. "Are you out of your mind?"

"My. . . employees are downstairs," Mycroft says nonchalantly, and for one second huffing just like his brother at John's remark, "they'll ensure that the lodge keeper has no qualms to a modest indoor shooting practice."

John shakes his head, evaluating the weapon in his hands, "I doubt Sherlock would've said anything different about that."

Mycroft covers his ears with ear protection, "All yours."

Before John knows it, the first bullet has made its way into the wall. He's familiar with gunfire, so it doesn't startle him as much as he thought. He knows the shooting practice regime. Hit the next as close to it as possible.

After five more shots, the embedded bullet holes in the wall lie in a circumference of about 5 centimetre from the centre. Mycroft is pleased but it doesn't show on his face, "I will want this back when this is over."

John nods, unloading it and packing the pistol and the magazine with his clothes, "What about you, Mycroft?"

"What about me?" he asks.

"What will you do if Sherlock does not want to see you?"

He turns away, "I will continue to serve the country. At any rate, the "Cubanisation of Mexico" is something that is up for debate, isn't it? There are some senators who are being increasingly difficult," he goes on, apparently unaware of John's presence, "and I must clean after their deeds, being the minor government official that I am."

John watches him carefully, even though Mycroft's words don't make any sense to him.

"And," Mycroft edges closer, seemingly registering John's company once again, "when Sherlock is found, kindly keep the firearm away from his reach and give him no ideas about shooting indoors."

John cannot help but let his face break into an amused smile.

 

* * *

 

Boston, Tuesday, 3rd March, 1914, 4:13 pm

Sherlock dresses himself as hurriedly as he can. He lays an eye on the magnificent sleeping figure of Von Bork on the bed, wraps a scarf around his neck, fixes his breasts till they look nonexistent over his shirt, delves into Von Bork's clothes lying neglected on the floor till he finds his driving license and some cash. Enough with having to keep his sick boy in day care while he spent his days being penetrated and pleasured by a one-sided lover. Tom needed him, and a sick child while in Estrus is a curse for an Omega.

Unconsciously, he rubs his almost nonexistent belly. He knows the magnitude of what he did when he rolled off the French safe off Von Bork's prick without the latter's knowledge. But it's necessary. To stop the Heat, to get Thomas from day care and stop the relentless assault on his tired constitution. Even if body's just transport, there's only so much he can take.

But Von Bork's words are worrying _._

_I'll run my tongue over your body and claim you so many times that that odour—that Bond bite will disappear into nothingness and all you'll remember is the touch of my hands on your body._

Because despite everything, Von Bork seems to be completely in love with him—he said so, but then Sherlock had been lying, and it is easier to lie to an Alpha so mindful of his needs. But what Unbonded Alpha can resist the charms of a young Omega in Estrus against that of an old wife somewhere in Europe? Von Bork is more likely to fall in love till he is under the influence of dopamine in his system.

It's terribly inconvenient to have someone like Von Bork falling for him. Von Bork as a one-sided lover is much, much dangerous than Von Bork as an enemy.

As much as he wants to flee with his boy, Sherlock can't. He can't—he won't leave America. It's either thugs here, or war and bombings in Europe, or colonialism and ignorance in Asia and Africa. Thugs it is.

He gives himself two weeks into the pregnancy—that is, only if he conceives—and after that, the torture would begin again till the last week of pregnancy. Two weeks is more than enough time. It would only take him three more days to get birth control pills at the point of a gun. And it's not like the druggists will be able to fool into giving Sherlock a wrong pill. There'll be some unpleasantness with his body resisting against the birth control pill, some side-effects but then it will be alright. It will all be worth of the two sweet months of full control on his body.

But for now, the dull ache of dormant arousal that would've restarted within an hour isn't there anymore and Sherlock is grateful for it. His mind is clearer, his senses are sharp with Von Bork's scent no longer surrounding him and invading that of John—late John—and his combined scents.

He dons his coat and the blast of crisp early spring air greets him on his way out. Goes to the garage and takes out Von Bork's car, scraping out the left side of '8' to make it look like '3' on the license plate. Does the same with the driving license by scratching it out expertly—he's mastered the trick of it.

He did say he wanted to get to Mycroft.

Sherlock hasn't seen Mycroft, or heard his name since the _Titanic_ survivors' glare died off the media. Hearing his name is like ripples on a memory left long undisturbed. McCarthy had sent Sherlock to work under the agent Von Bork because they believed that Von Bork had tremendous influence over most of the American continent. At the beginning, it was only a way for them to extend their reach by sending Sherlock to deal with a man who was almost as cunning and difficult as Sherlock himself. Or that's what they told him.

Sherlock never expected to get himself into it so deep. Never expected to come back to square one. Back to the man who works under Von Bork.

Because he opens the door and Colonel Moran greets him, as crisp as the spring air.

Damn Alphas.

 

* * *

 

Chicago, Friday, 6th March 1914, 1:23 pm

"Help me here, mate," says John, cracking his elbows and bending over the smoking engine of the car, "I think something's gone awry with the automobile."

The man who is passing by throws John a weird look, but approaches the car cautiously, ready to run away if the damaged car shows even the slightest hint of detonation.

"What's wrong, man?"

John shakes his head, "Dunno, the last mile had been a bitch. She was such a flyer," John complains. "I'm supposed to meet a friend tomorrow, it's an old-time meeting, you see, so I brought this bird wimme to show to my old mate. But she's gone all loony now and he's going to laugh at me."

The man shrugs, "Well, you're outside the city. Fetch a mechanic or something, but it'll take time and persuading. I don't know nothing about this," he motions towards the car, "I ain't a tech guy."

"Thanks man," John says, trying to pick up with the other man's accent, "just one last favour?"

The man raises his eyebrows in a gesture of "alright, ask". John relaxes, "Any pub or lodge 'round here? I'm thirsty like hell."

"Sure," the man points towards a dull building in a dusty distance that looks like it's been taken right out from a Wild West saloon, "That's the Buffalo's. You could go there, but there's. . ." the man shakes his head almost unconsciously, "Irish ones there, so I'd be careful."

"Thanks man."

"Anytime."

Having located the Breckenridge's club, _Buffalo_ (what a name, John thinks), John turns the key of his car with a smooth click and makes his way towards the inn. He doesn't know what had possessed him to refuse Mycroft's offer of a bodyguard of some sort, it had strictly something to do with his stupid overbearing Alpha nature. And Mycroft had easily acquiesced because of the said Alpha nature and because he wasn't the one to challenge an Alpha about his mate.

 _God help me_ , John thinks, thumbing his dog tags and enters the inn. It's a modest place. The barkeeper's to his right, chatting up in a perfect American accent to his less-obscure customers. The afternoon's a regular time, it seems, because the number of people is decently average. It's half a refreshment club and a sort of pub that couldn't have been any busier on a Saturday night.

Something's wrong, John thinks, instantly on alert. Of course, something's got to be wrong with the place Sherlock made his haunt. There are just too many men here, and even though they're boisterous and flirty with the pretty waitress, John knows something's wrong. This isn't the right time of day. Buffalo is outside the city and working class men such as these wouldn't waste their time here at this hour, even for lunch.

He feels for the cool metal of the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He might not have to use it, but he's grateful that it's there. Sherlock was never the type to mix with the ordinary, and Mycroft certainly knew that, otherwise he wouldn't have let John go unarmed and wouldn't have proposed a bodyguard of some sorts.

Browsing through the pub in general and assuring himself that he isn't as assuming as many of the men, he clambers onto a seat and the barkeeper looks much relieved to leave his customers and make his way to him.

"Just a glass of water," John says, eyeing the Beta in front of him carefully, and then assures himself that he is harmless, "had a rough day."

The barkeeper nods silently. John sips his water quietly and smiles politely at an average-looking waitress smiling seductively at him. She comes around the corner and hangs around him for a moment. John feels like trusting her; women are much more trustworthy. Her age is indecipherable, she's a blonde, her lips are coated with red lipstick and her eyes are glowing, it seems, with mischief.

"Can I get you something?"

"Soda water," John shrugs, and as she's out of the way for a few moments, John takes the opportunity to take in every guy in the club. She returns with his drink and he smiles politely at her.

"So," he takes a sip and licks his upper lip as she hovers around him, with apparently no work to do, "what's your name, then?"

She eyes the barkeeper and then leans in front of him, whispers, "Mary. I work the morning shift."

"Err, I'm Sherlock," John says, their eyes locking as blue meets pale green, "nice to meet you."

Her eyes rest on him longer than normal and John realises his folly when he remembers that Sherlock had been a fairly infamous name in 1912. But then she smiles reassuringly and John tells himself that it's been two years, "That's an interesting name.”

"Yeah," John says, looking around, "my mate John always tol' me that."

She looks at him with a smile, more of a smirk, "John, huh?"

"Yeah," John carries on, not the least suspicious, "John Altamont, my best mate. I'm actually going to see him again. We made this deal where we had to separate for two years. I worked my fortune in the West, and he was a lover of the city," he continues with a chuckle, "last I saw of him, we parted twelve miles off this very town. He stayed here, I went west, and now we're meeting up back in here."

"That's an interesting story," she says, pouring him another drink that John doesn't have the heart to refuse, "a bit too O Henry for me."

John laughs, although he doesn't understand the reference, "He always loved the dramatic. Crazy man, Sher—John was," he hastily corrects himself, and then glances at the clock, "Dunno when he's gonna arrive. Said he'd be here by one-thirty."

"Well, you can wait on your luck," she says in a friendly voice as she collects his glasses, "If he's here, he might turn up."

John's glances at the men, and decides that the girl (or woman) can tell him better about what Sherlock has been up to, "Hey, Mary!"

She turns to him, keeps the glasses on the counter table, "Yeah?"

He makes a come-here gesture to her. She smoothes her skirt and approaches him, "Need more?"

John chuckles, "Not that. Maybe you could. . . keep me company till he came."

She sighs and shrugs, "Not really. My shift ends at two, you know. My boss is going to be glaring daggers at me for ignoring the customers."

"Oh," John glances around, "Right. Who's the boss?"

"That one," she points at a sly-looking, ruddy-faced plainclothes man with what seems like a steel tooth as he grins at the barkeeper. The sort of man he'd meet on a rainy day. John doesn't like the look of the man.

"Not that ostentatious," John notes, not wanting to say much. So that will be the man he'll need to interrogate about Sherlock.

She looks him head to toe, "Although, I could hang out with you if. . . you know," she looks down at the empty glass still sweating in front of John and smirks, "if I were on duty."

"In that case," John replies smartly, "one more please."

After she's given him his drink, she leans across him on the counter, the very picture of innocent maiden smitten with the Alpha supposedly flirting, but John's attention is too much on discovering Sherlock's whereabouts to notice his own demeanour.

"You know, I'm meeting the man after two years," he whispers furtively, "and it'd be, well, you know the ego of our sex, tell me about what he's been up to. I have my stories, but I doubt his will be to any calibre to those of mine."

She cocks an eyebrow at him, "About John Altamont?"

"About John Altamont," he confirms, "he can't have done more than I did. But, just so I know what stories to tell him so that he isn't disheartened, y'know."

He flashes a charming smile to coax her into confidence. Unexpectedly, she doesn't blush, being the picture of perfect maiden modesty. Perhaps not as stranger as John had hoped her to be.

"Yeah, I knew him," says Mary, somewhat vaguely.

"He's a detective now, yeah? I read in the papers."

She watches him interestedly, "Yeah, a detective. He had a gang after him and then he left. No idea where."

John blinks. The girl isn't saying anything he doesn't know.

"Wow, a gang," he feigns admiration, "I think he'll match my reputation after all. So. . . any chance of him coming back?" There's a something strange in the back of John's head, but he ignores it.

"Well, I don't know if he's been in touch. You can ask boss over there, actually the Underboss," she cocks her head towards the steel-toothed man, "Name's McCarthy."

"He can tell me where John Altamont is?"

"I thought you were meeting him up. Here," Mary says with a smile. John bites his tongue.

"Yeah, for when he doesn't come. Gotta brag to someone of my exploits, eh?"

"Try me."

John chuckles, "You'll have to take an appointment, like my mate did."

"What, two years?"

"Two hours, if you're lucky," he says faux-cheerfully.

"Good thing I'm very lucky," she smirks, "you should go to the boss, he seems to be in a good mood now."

"Mary!" comes a call from the man Mary called her boss—McCarthy, John remembers—and she shoots John a look before hurrying off wordlessly. He watches the man's eyes settle on him for some time. John looks away, feeling uncomfortable, and is suddenly very glad that he has the gun with him. Why, he has no idea.

He ponders over Mary's advice. He has to look unassuming, come across as unassuming, was what Mycroft had said. He couldn't rouse a single suspicion against himself, could not have his cover blown. The men that Sherlock interacted with must have been dangerous for him to take such an extreme step to ensure his own safety. Although, as much as John can tell, Sherlock has never really been worried about particularly his own safety.

"Is the seat taken?"

John looks up, somewhat startled. The Alpha with steel front tooth—McCarthy, the underboss—is settling down in front of him, and John—who had been trying to come up with ways of approaching the man—can't help but marvel at his own good luck. His rational mind puts up red flags, and he keeps on alert with the man, for the man wouldn't come to him for a seat, when there were some others not taken

John shrugs, and the man plops down on it, "One beer, and one for. . . what's your name?"

"I don't drink," John says pleasantly, even though it's technically not true.

"One for Mr. I-don't-drink too. Drinks on me," he indicates to Mary, cocking his eyebrow at her. John's starting to feel annoyed at the man taking liberties with him, but doesn't say anything. The man stays silent till the drinks reach them. He takes a mighty belt, this eccentric Alpha, and John finds it hard not to touch his own drink and take a tentative sip of it.

"Pardon me, but I couldn't help but listen to bits of your conversation with the waitress."

John nods, not wanting to say much except that the said waitress is called 'Mary'. McCarthy immediately comes across to John as a shady character, however helpful as she claimed him to be.

"Is he coming here today?" McCarthy presses on.

"If I wait, he might," John answers. The throbbing pain in his head becomes much more intense.

McCarthy chuckles, "Then it's most urgent that you wait. It's been eight months since we heard anything of him."

The red flags are up again in John's mind, but he can't process them properly. The pub is hotter than it should be, frankly a sweltering mess with too many people, "He's. . . left Chicago, has he. . . ?"

McCarthy seems to be coming closer to him, the lustre of the steel tooth diminishing, "What d'ya reckon?"

John doesn't retract one bit, refusing to be intimidated, but dark edges seem to be closing upon his vision, "By my reckoning. . . you don't. . ." wheeze, "know where he's. . . flown off. . ."

He tries to breathe, but chokes on his own saliva.

"All I know," McCarthy says, as John feels his eyes closing on their own accord. He tries to reach for his gun, but feels too weak too even lift a finger, "is that he has some debt that is yet to be paid."

 

* * *

 

Boston, Tuesday, 3rd March, 1914, 5:02 pm

There's something about Colonel Moran: a certain reserve that a criminal won't have, if Sherlock had to go by the usual brand he's met during his short career. The man is quiet, violent, crisp, cruel, mysterious, and surprisingly respectful of Sherlock's boundaries, and certainly one of the most dangerous Alphas Sherlock has ever met. Sherlock can't make him out. He's almost interesting, as a person that is not the criminal in him.

The journey, as it always is with Moran, is silent, irritatingly so. Sherlock can't help but wonder his exact position in Von Bork's ring of spies and agents. He can see from Moran's hands that he's quite the long distance shooter, supplemented by the facts that Von Bork has told Sherlock of him, of his dishonour in the army due to reasons that Sherlock wanted to know. What could have led to only a dishonourable discharge as opposed to being hanged?

These questions shouldn't keep one up at night, but they do. Sometimes they do, if not most nights.

When Moran is done purchasing the contraceptives for Sherlock (surprisingly, with no awkwardness in Moran, unlike what Sherlock had expected), Sherlock immediately snatches one of the pills and stuffs it into his mouth with a grunt of 'day care'.

"Mr. Von Bork has also requested me to tell you, on his behalf, to be kind as to never to pull a stunt like that again."

Sherlock scoffs. How does Von Bork always know? "I don't take orders from a servant."

"Oh yes," Moran chuckles as he drives out of there, "all that nobility hasn't worn out yet, has it? Pretty same it is for now, is it not, Mr. Holmes? Just like old times."

"What d'you mean?" Sherlock asks him sharply.

"Live-in mistress," Moran says with a tut and Sherlock scowls at him. "I had such designs for you, my dear sir. But you consent to remain only a worthless, good-for-nothing Omega."

Sherlock watches him carefully. Knows better than to believe Moran, who is only under the employ of Von Bork, but the insult and his own curiosity threatens to get the better of him, "Designs, you say? Pretty speech from my chauffeur, but what you gave me as an exercise for my brains isn't what I desired at all."

For Sherlock not only needed the stimulation, but the adventure. He was a free man, Omega or not, not a conspiracy hatching machine sitting behind a desk. He isn't someone who works under people.

"Believe me or not," Moran shrugs, and turns the attention back to the sparsely-populated road. Something strikes Sherlock, a long-forgotten and never-dwelled-upon avenue of thought.

"When you first took me in. . ." Sherlock ventures warily, "Did Erik have any hand in it?"

The colonel laughs, "I thought my respect for you and your brains was clear enough in my praise of them."

"Why should I trust a word that you said?" Sherlock spits, "You had someone take advantage of me while I lay utterly helpless so that you could get your point across. _An Omega always needs a protector_ ," Sherlock sneers, imitating Moran's manner.

"Ah, but the point did go across, just not in the straight way it should have."

Sherlock throws him a look and places a hand on Moran's thigh before he can think of what he's doing, "Let's have it straight then, like the Alpha you claim to be."

Moran looks down at Sherlock's hand on his thigh, and pats it away, chuckling at him like at a child who has tied his shoes the wrong way. He doesn't reply, leaving Sherlock to comprehend the enormity of the implied rejection during the silence of their journey. Only when they reach the day care centre does he speak. He leans in close to Sherlock, so much that Sherlock can detect that enticing scent of his, and he sneers—

"Omega."

With that, he leaves Sherlock staggering backwards on the pavement, and goes to park the vehicle at a distance. Slowly collecting himself from the sudden and horrible revelation, Sherlock slowly makes his way to his bundle to joy now reduced to a coughing little life. The place is safe—or so Von Bork has assured him—and one of the best childcare nursing centres in Boston. Under Von Bork's protection, he can trust Tom till the day care.

Once Sherlock climbs up to the second floor, where the day care facility had separated Tom from other healthy babies into the nursing ward, a soft, slightly hoarse sound greets him.

"Da-da!"

All doubts of the future and thoughts of the Colonel forgotten for an instant, Sherlock leans in close to the crib and mutters to the doctor, letting Tom play with his longer fingers, "How's Thomas now?"

"Better than yesterday," says the forty-year-old Beta doctor, "Lungs are clear, so he has more luck than most babies his age."

Sherlock does a take at the chart. Luck is what they need now.

"We can discharge him today," the doctor says, "In a few hours."

Sherlock nods and gives Tom a weak smile, "I'll stay."

"And erm. . ." the Beta hesitates, "if you wouldn't mind, sir, it'd be wiser if I had a chat with his mother."

Sherlock is almost about to say that he _is_ the mother, but then he stops himself, remembering his facade as an Alpha, "I assure you, you can be just as liberal with me."

"Erm. . ." the Beta doctor looks uncomfortable, "it's to do with. . . well, I surely wouldn't want to aggravate an Alpha, sir."

"You will not, when it comes to my boy," Sherlock sighs, "just get on with it."

Even though there's nothing but gentleness in Sherlock's tone, the Beta flinches as if he had just shouted at him, "Very well, sir. If you'd be so kind as to wait for a few minutes, I'll do a last check up on some. . . others before I join you."

Sherlock heaves another sigh when the doctor flees with false cheer in his voice from who he considers to be a very aggressive (if on the lean side) Alpha. Tom stares up at his face, sitting properly like an adult even if he is only a year and two months old. Sherlock rests his hand deliberately some distance from Tom, who leans forward, grabs it, his eyes asking permission, and examines Sherlock's palms minutely, as if they were the most fascinating object he has ever seen. Sherlock silently lets him, trying to think what he is thinking. Even with all his cleverness, he can't know.

"Ooh," Tom squeals with interest, wide blue eyes looking up at Sherlock for guidance just like John's once used to. Sherlock stifles the memory within him, instead drinking the adoration that Tom showers him with.

"You'll come home today, Thomas," Sherlock whispers, prodding his nose gently, but Tom isn't paying him any attention, "We're alright now, you and I. Just a few hours, like the doctor said—oh, for God's sake, listen to me!"

Sherlock sighs an all-suffering sigh when Tom refuses to acquiesce, and stops with his monologue when he sees the Beta doctor approaching them. He smiles at Tom, who is generally good at faces so he scrunches his face at the doctor and points him to Sherlock, his own style of introduction.

"Yes, I know he's your doctor," Sherlock drawls. The doctor laughs.

"He's an intelligent little man," says the doctor appraisingly, "but a little underweight for his age."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, "You wanted to talk to his mother about his weight? I think I'm perfectly capable of not getting aggravated by that bit of news."

The doctor swallows, visibly, "Ah no, sir," he keeps saying 'sir' and Sherlock can't help but note the influence an Alpha can have on a Beta, "it's not to talk about Thomas' physical health, but more of his. . ." and here, he desperately scourges for words that may not set an Alpha off, "mental health."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him, "I beg your pardon?"

"Well," the doctor's palpitating words come, scared like a hunted rabbit, "sir, excuse my boldness, but—I speak the truth. While in good cheer, Thomas is a regular, happy baby, but when not. . . well. . . "

"When not. . .?" Sherlock asks, prompting. His heart speeds up, breath seems to be seizing. Surely he hasn't done anything? Oh please, pray tell it isn't, please.

"When he's. . . well, in not as happy, when he's sad. . . he cries—"

"Babies cry all the time," Sherlock says quickly, far too quickly than he'd allow himself to.

"Of course, yes sir, you're absolutely right. You are very, very correct. But just. . . he cries. . . more than most. And when. . . and when he is, well. . . he has. . . tendencies, sir."

Sherlock doesn't show the terror and the guilt on his face, "What tendencies?"

The Beta closes his eyes shut tightly, jaw clenched, lips trembling. The very picture of a tortured soul, "Violent. . . tendencies, that often culminate in long periods of silent crying and weeping. I—I might be wrong," he feebly adds at the end, but Sherlock knows. Just false assurance to keep himself away from an Alpha's wrath, but the doctor doesn't believe himself to be wrong, if he were to be honest to himself.

After a long, tense period of silence, Sherlock begins carefully, "Has he ever. . . showed such tendencies?"

The doctor heaves an almost audible sigh of relief at Sherlock talking sense. He undoes his cuffs to show his white skin marred with vicious fingernail prints that are all the more horrifying considering the miniscule size of them and the body which has inflicted them upon the bearer.

"That. . ." Sherlock can't help but seethe, "could have been an accident."

"Yes, yes it could have," the doctor nods too vigorously, "of course it could have. Just that. . . in my fifteen-year experience, no child that young has attacked me so viciously upon being spotted with a steel mug."

"Survival instinct?" Sherlock breathes out, guilt closing in on him.

"Children have survival instincts against animals and green things, plants which they subconsciously think might contain toxins. Not against a steel mug. Children are usually attracted to the gleam of the metal, but. . ."

The sights of Sherlock killing men, of blood and violence, of guns and knives being wielded, of Martha and Louise's murders and Thomas bathed in their blood. . . could it have induced trauma? Sure, it would have an adverse effect on an adult, as Freudian psychoanalysis had revealed, but surely it was impossible for an infant? He wasn't even six months on that fateful day. Surely he hadn't done this to him? But all he had done was to protect Tom.

After a long, long time, Sherlock expels a draught of breath he didn't know he had been holding, "Thank you. I'll. . . take the. . . necessary steps."

The doctor looks like he wants to argue, but for the sake of not provoking the anger of an Alpha, he curtsies politely and goes on his way. Sherlock watches Tom play with a small doll while poking the miniature figurine in the eye stubbornly with his little thumb when he gathers that the doll is lifeless in his grip. Wonders if Tom even knows or understands what he is doing. Wonders if he has always been a horrible mother to Tom.

Thinks of what Moran implied. All he's ever done, it's all for Thomas. Taken advantage of his gender and his youthful charms, perhaps more than that of the capabilities of his brain than he cared to admit. Because it was easier.

Was it not enough, or was it wrong?

 

* * *

 

Friday, 6th March 1914, 4:15 pm

"What _are_ you doing, my dear?" Von Bork, just arrived after two whole days, exclaims, half out of surprise, half out of irritation upon seeing Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't help but notice that he was starting to do this on a daily basis; leave Sherlock alone in his flat without a word about where he was going, and returning days later. Seemed a little off from the love declaration the Alpha had made a few days ago.

"Something worthwhile," Sherlock answers, locking away in drawers everything that might be a stirrer for the reminders of those violent acts to which Tom was exposed at so tender an age.

For two days, Sherlock was seized by the need to keep away every such thing away that might remind Tom of the violent circumstances he was brought up in.  They already have the house baby-proofed, knives and likewise stored away, sharp things and edges kept out of sight and suchlike, but the doctor's words, coupled with his own suspicions about Tom's erratic behaviour—crying till late nights—all were indicative of trauma of having to see his own people dead. Sherlock hoped that eventually he would forget about it, but he doubted it.

He looks at the finished product: no disturbing crimson, no gleam of silver or steel around Tom's environment. Perfect.

"Come here, my dear," comes an enormous yawn from the bedroom. A spark of something unnamed runs through Sherlock's spine, tautening something deliciously within him. Not something he has really felt before—good or bad, he has no idea about that either—a frisson of excitement running through him which makes him go to the bedroom without a moment of consideration. Tries not to think of unfaithfulness to a dead man; faith is an overrated virtue to someone concerned only with survival and of a tiny vestige of the said dead man.

"Are you never tired?" Sherlock asks wearily, plopping down on the bed, "One day Thomas will complain about the noise you make."

"Let's make use of his infancy in the best way then, shall we?"

Sherlock shakes his head, "I've created a monster."

Von Bork smiles—and leans forward to kiss him, albeit with less enthusiasm than usual. Breaks away and looks at Sherlock like he is his undoing, the only one. The genuineness of emotion in his eyes sends a quiver of terror through Sherlock—what can he ever do to make a run, should he ever enlist Mycroft's assistance to get rid of this vile man—replaced almost instantly by a sort of excitement as dark as the man himself.

"Erik. . ."

Von Bork soon pushes him down on the bed, their lips never parting for a moment. He cups Sherlock's face and Sherlock wraps his arms around his shoulders, slowly running them on his back, feeling the shoulder blades, the muscles pliant over the thin skeleton of the man.

"If only you were mine. . ." he whispers in Sherlock's left ear, baring his teeth hungrily at the almost faded Bond bite, "I'd have given you so much. . ."

Sherlock kisses the side of his face and wisely guides him away towards his gravid chest, "Is there something. . . still left to be. . . given?"

"And taken too."

"I've given you. . ." Sherlock's breath hitches as Von Bork gently gropes his breasts, "my body and my love. I do not have anything else to offer, nothing that you'd want anyway."

"Faith, my dear," says Von Bork, tearing Sherlock's shirt in one sudden move and taking his breasts out from the restraints. Sets to work the nubs to their most swollen with tongue and pinches, "Your stunt was certainly not appreciated."

"You wore me out, my dear. These two days without making love have been a blessing."

"And your forwardness with the good colonel."

Even though the sensation of Von Bork dipping his tongue in his navel should've been electrifying, it is not in the slightest. Suddenly, it screams of ownership, especially when Von Bork finishes with a wet kiss to his lower abdomen and retracts himself from Sherlock's grip, leaving Sherlock with arousal heavy in his trousers, and terribly disappointed.

"Go and relieve yourself," he says quietly, "We'll talk about your brother tomorrow."

"Erik. . ." Sherlock begins brokenly, thinking about his newfound sentiment and his unsatisfied arousal that only an Alpha's knot could fulfil.

With a curse, he gets off the bed, ignoring his arousal. He is the master of his body, and he'll control it according to when he wants something. He goes to the small bed, sits at the altar of his sleeping baby and thinks, thinks of what he's become, from the Sherlock Holmes who boarded the Titanic on the April the tenth of 1912.

 

* * *

 

Chicago, Friday, 6th March 1914, 4:16 pm

A kick to the side wakes John up from the stupor he's been all these hours. His head throbs with blinding pain, there seems to be too much noise around him and he can't feel his legs.

"Ah. . ."

He's in a fairly well-lit room. There's the unfamiliar, gruff voice of an Alpha somewhere near him. Dimly aware of anything more about his surroundings than drool dribbling down the side of his mouth, John tries to get up but is held down by two strong pairs of arms.

"He's awake," comes the distant distortion of a voice, the same gruff voice. John tries to fight when he feels his strength returning to him as quickly as it had left him. He tries to get up, but then discovers that he's being tied down.

John tries to part his eyelids to see the outline of his offender standing in front of him: McCarthy. Scowls at him and then realises that he is checking the binds properly. A kick to his stomach wakes him into the real world. Scrunching up his face against the light, he spots the pistol away at a distance from him, the one that Mycroft had given him.

He's completely unarmed, defenceless and helpless. Chokes on his saliva and his own blood as the man tips his chin up and forces his gaze.

"What's your name?"

Dimly, John is aware of his alias, "Sher—Sherlock—"

"Don't lie!" growls the man, followed by another kick.

John opens his eyes, taking in the whole unfamiliar room. There's two men near him, one of them who is smoking a cigar is the one John recognises as McCarthy, the other he doesn't know.

"What—is—you—name?"

John now knows that Sherlock probably did something to piss them off. Badly. Although there are a lot of things that come to John's mind, there are none that should've elicited such a nasty reaction from these men at the inn.

John refuses to say another word, looks at them stubbornly, "I've told you. . . It's Sherlock Holmes."

"Is it now?" McCarthy narrows his eyes, blows the smoke in his face. John resists the urge to cough. He can take a little bit of smoke. The Alpha's eyes glint, and he presses the lit end of the cigar into John's bicep. John refuses to cry out, winces at the sensation. Clenches his fists, tenses his muscles, anything. Thinks of Sherlock and their reunion. Anything to block out the pain.

"Do you know what John Altamont did?" he snarls, "He lied and lied to us. He took out money, he killed our men and ran off."

No, Sherlock couldn't have killed someone, John thinks. He's not even twenty.

"He's my friend," John growls, unable to take any sully to Sherlock's name, "He can't kill anybody."

McCarthy looks at him wildly, and then laughs till he's sick, "Friend, you say? You're a goddamned Alpha. An Omega doesn't have Alpha friends."

"W—what?" John chokes. The other man swings a tire lever in his side and John can feel the blood pouring from his nose.

"Oh, don't pretend you're all innocent! Altamont sent you, didn't he? With a crackpot story of meeting at this pub! Do you even think he'd come back here, that coward?"

"He t—told me—to—after—" John is left to pieces upon knowing that Sherlock wasn't as successful in hiding his gender as he probably thought himself to be. If the world knew he was an Omega, they wouldn't waste a second trying to take advantage of him—

"Oh, I got that tale, thanks a lot!" he roars and knees John in the stomach.

"I haven't—" cough, "seen him in. . . two years," John says with as much austerity as he can. That was more or less true.

"Is that so? You're an Alpha, and you haven't seen your dear _Omega_ friend in two years?"

"He is an Alpha—" John chokes out weakly.

"That fucking plaything is an Omega whore," McCarthy sneers, and John growls at him, throwing him his best _I'd like to murder you when I'm free_ glare, "with those titties bouncing on his man-chest—"

John howls in anger, lashes against his restraints, too angry to comprehend the meaning and the insinuation of his words.

"—to feed that little ankle-biter. Thought he could fool me with saying that it was his housekeeper's boy. As if _John Altamont_ was capable of being grateful," McCarthy laughs, and then observes a livid John carefully, "You're his Alpha, aren't you? That little thumb-sucker looked just like you, I swear."

All anger and pain forgotten, John gapes at him, "What?"

Another blow to his legs, and this time he cries out, not having time to steel himself mentally against the sudden pain in the light of the knowledge imparted to him.

"Don't you fucking lie!"

But John, too shell-shocked by the knowledge of a baby looking like him—Sherlock's, his, _their_ baby—can't reply anymore. His existence is a feeble occurrence compared to the knowledge that somewhere, Sherlock was there, with a part of _them_.

"You're lying," John tries to croak out, just to make sure that this isn't a dream he will be pulled out of any moment. Another blow to his side tells him that it is reality. Yes it is, oh God it is.

McCarthy snorts, and presses the end of the cigar into his neck this time. John softly whimpers at the distant pain, but it isn't as sharp as he had expected it to be.

After a check, McCarthy moves away and clicks his fingers, "Get Mary to do him up. I'm keeping this chicken."

John's head lolls to his side limply, eyes staring into nothingness as every inch in him aches and screams in pain. Someone comes in—even unties him with gentle, caring hands—and John has a distant thought of getting his revolver and making his way out of the bad hand he's dealt this time.

He closes his eyes, the desire and motivation to see Sherlock again glowing stronger than ever.


	27. Mary Morstan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the extremely delayed update! In the honour on 10-day belated one year anniversary of this fic and of 10k+ hits (gosh, my first fic to get so many!), I present this chapter.

Chicago, Friday, 6th March 1914, 6:33 pm

 

John snaps his eyes open to see Mary leaning down, looking at him curiously. He blinks twice, trying to comprehend the sight in front of him, of the girl—the woman—sitting down cross-legged beside him. John's on the floor himself, still reeling from shock and his bruises. It's hard to tell how long he's laid there.

_I have a child. Sherlock has a child. All alone. I wasn't there for him._

"Stay still," Mary says softly, albeit not gently, all the impression of an innocent maiden gone from her face. Her eyes are fixed on John's injuries and she works with a single-mindedness that vaguely reminds John of Sherlock. John has a blurry vision of her, and yet she is recognisable. He stays still, staring at the blurry ceiling, fingers trembling with life slowly leaking out of him, life that Mary tries to heal so ardently.

She cleans his wounds expertly with brandy and bandages, and John can only wonder how many times McCarthy—the Underboss—has beaten men like him before him, and how many times Mary has had to tend to them. For she doesn't seem put off by the sight of purple skin oozing blood, unlike John would expect of a woman. Not that there aren't nurses in the world, but being of delicate nature women would surely not be exposed to such malevolently wounded patients.

But she knows, or at least seems to know, what she's doing. She helps John up against the leg of a chair, her hands patient but unyielding, and John winces as he sits upright, feeling the blow to the side of his stomach tenderly. He feels his eyelids drooping slowly, his body slowly succumbing to exhaustion and for a moment, John thinks that he might die from the pain.

"Drink this," Mary brings the uncorked bottle of brandy to his lips, and John wearily looks at her. The mischief earlier in her eyes is now obscured by a curtain of dullness, one that shows all over her face.

John has a sudden moment of realisation, and he flings the drink away with a smooth but angry flick of his hand. He sags against the leg of the chair at the expense of that sudden energy, "You mixed something in my drink, earlier!"

She doesn't even flinch at the sound of broken glass, or at the sight of one of the Alphas from downstairs coming up to check if there was something wrong. She heaves a tired sigh, and goes back to nursing his wounds. John flinches away.

"Don't you touch me!"

Her jaw sets in a hard frame, "You'll die if I don't treat you."

"You might murder me in the name of treating!"

"There's no sense in killing you. The Boss just went a little overboard with all his sadistic tastes."

John looks at her calculatingly, and then gives in. After a length of time, he utters quietly, "You're a woman."

Mary glances at him, and smirks a little, and then goes back to dabbing and cleaning and dressing, "So, a gentleman of honour such as you would never suspect a woman of treachery?"

John considers this, but he can't banish from his mind the sight of Mary smiling coyly while handing him a drink that she knew would incapacitate him in this manner. The only woman who came close was the late Jennifer Wilson.

"Women can fight, are good actors—actresses, I mean—but what you did needs. . . nerves," his eyes flick to her, and then back to her small, deft fingers, "You holding a person's life in your hands. . ."

"All it needs is two hands, some mild sedative and a drink," Mary replies preoccupied-ly, blowing out a breath kept in far too long, and John tries not to wince at her touch, at her words, "even a child can do that."

"No, not just. . ." John shakes his head tiredly, still looking up at her with distrust, "I was chatting you up. I thought you—well, I. . ."

Mary lets go of his arm, and looks at him, into his eyes, and John feels like an utter fool for having said that. She opens her mouth and closes it, opens it again and closes again, seemingly trying a different answer every time and failing.

"Mary!" comes a call, startling them both from their reverie. John feels supremely embarrassed at that, "Are you alright?! Is that chicken bothering you?"

"I'm fine!" Mary yells back to the voice, and looks at John. John, meanwhile remembers that Mary is on the other side of the team, and he looks away bitterly. Mary finishes with the last of her patching up, the silence between them like a wall no one was willing to jump over. She tosses him a pillow and a sheet, which John doesn't even touch, and throws him a last, lingering look.

"Am I a prisoner here now?" John asks helplessly.

Mary fixes him a hard look, and then leaves, shutting the door behind her and leaving John alone and to hopelessly wonder how he would escape this place and how he would get to Sherlock—and his child—now.

"Perhaps." Comes her voice from outside.

  

* * *

  

Washington DC, Saturday, 7th March 1914, 12:22 pm

 

Mycroft grits his teeth, the wire shaking underneath his fingers. Oh, if only his lot were half as good.

The reassurance from his agent that John hadn't fled and that he had in fact left his car behind was completely unnecessary. Even when Mycroft had threatened John that his actions would be cruel if he even dared to leave, he knew that John, being the loyal man that he was, would never do such a thing.

John was a fool if he really thought that Mycroft was going to let him go alone in there. Inexperienced as he is, there had to be some sort of backup. And that very backup—his agent—turned out to be completely useless.

Mycroft groans in his palms. Should he keep faith in John's—an average street-smart young-man-turned-soldier—abilities to extract information despite his cover being blown? John, up till now, had proved to be remarkably intelligent—if a bit naive—and dedicated, and if there was a man who could go to any limits after Sherlock, it was John.

Or maybe, he should send a team down. Detain all of them, get John out. But then they'd never reveal the full information. He's kept his eyes out for such gangs. These people weren't ordinary criminals.

Maybe they shouldn't have rushed this. Even Mycroft got caught up in the anticipation of seeing Sherlock once again. They should've built an alias for John while dealing with these men, plus John lacked the subtlety required of an agent.

What to do?

  

* * *

 

Boston, Tuesday, 17th March 1914, 9:22 am

 

"Come have a look at this," Sherlock calls, while a well-fed Tom perched on his lap tries to reach out for the newspaper with his chubby hands and making faint noises of irritation at not being able to understand why a mere paper was getting more attention than him.

"What?" Von Bork, still dressing, yells, "Did dear Mr. President give another speech on world peace?"

"You'll be surprised. No Wilson, no Churchill on the front page. It's French news."

A pause, and then, "What?!"

Sherlock looks back at the newspaper, calculating Von Bork's reaction. Must be something important for him to react like that. He takes another chance, "About a certain Henriette Caillaux."

Another dubious pause, and then, "Oh?"

"Just saying what's written," Sherlock sips his tea, yawning widely and closing his mouth the instant Tom tries to put his hand in Sherlock's mouth as an experiment, " 'Crime Of Passion', it says. The hell it is."

"What happened?"

Glancing at the clock and waiting for Von Bork to be gone, he lets out a sigh, setting the newspaper on the table, "Give it a read yourself. I find this sort of sensational criminal news tedious—"

Before Sherlock can finish, however, a knock at the door of his flat stops him in his speech. He knows who it is, he's at loath to admit the expectation that the arrival causes.

Von Bork does too, Sherlock can tell, for he takes the newspaper that Sherlock has just set down on the tea table, and casts an eye through the article outlining in extraneous detail the murder case of one Gaston Calmette. It's not an ordinary murder case, and yet Sherlock is disinterested. It _is_ a pre-mediated act of violence, not a crime of passion as the newspapers were dubbing it.

Sherlock tries not to move or shift in his seat as Von Bork opens the door and admits Colonel Moran in. Sherlock, even though he hasn't turned to acknowledge his presence, he can feel the Colonel's eyes on him, on the nape of his neck and what it contained. He suddenly has an unexplainable urge to hide it, not because of what it makes him to the world, but what it makes to the colonel himself.

A short while later, the bedroom door shuts behind the two of them, and Sherlock knows it's beneath him to eavesdrop, but it's tempting. Von Bork had the newspaper in his hand. They'd surely bring it up, and why would Von Bork be interested in a murder case unless it had something to do with his sabotage plans? He glances at Tom, who isn't exactly versed in the art of subtlety, and puts a finger to his lip. Tom watches with wide avid eyes, mouth hung open as Sherlock whispers, "You stay here on your guard, Thomas. I need to check up on those two."

Tom pouts, flailing his arms. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Fine, _Da_ needs to check up, happy?"

The third person surprisingly satisfies Tom. Sherlock heaves a sigh and slowly creeps towards the bedroom.

  

* * *

 

"I suppose you're here to give me old news once again, colonel," Von Bork rubs his temples with his fingers, sounding convincingly detached, "Caillaux is busted. That wife of his. . ."

Moran, for once, felt out of his depths. He regained his composure, "It's just a. . . it would take less than a day to prove _Le Figaro's_ sources false, Charles."

Von Bork turns, the very picture of serenity, "And pray tell me, dear colonel, what will you say to this?"

He thrusts _The New York Times_ under the colonel's nose, whose eyebrows go high up as he reads the bulletin issued in the newspaper underneath a much younger photograph from his army days.

_" 'Col. Sebastian Augustus Moran, a fugitive from justice, is wanted by His Majesty's government for trial on the following charges: Murder on the high seas; the sinking and burning of British ships; the burning of military stores, warehouses, coaling stations; arson, sabotage, conspiracy, espionage and the falsification of Admiralty documents. This man walks with a limp, has a grotesque cut over his upper lip. If located, arrest, hold and wire, Detective Division, Police Headquarters, New York City, and an officer will be sent for him with necessary papers.' "_

"Oh, too bad," Von Bork tutts, "Cover blown. You're wanted."

"At least they got the limp wrong."

"They're this close to finding out about your own twelve labours, colonel. The Iron Cross First Class for your role in the "rescue" of the late Archduke of Austria? Attempted assassination of the Tsar, disrupting railway and transatlantic navy traffic channels through Canada to the States by those bombings, it's all coming to a close. They'll trace all the threads back and back to you."

Moran gulps. He knows what's at stake, and what Von Bork will suggest next. Von Bork looks at him with disbelief at his lack of reaction, apparently gauging his thoughts.

"You're not serious."

Moran heaves a sigh, "I can't leave."

Von Bork smiles imperturbably, "You'll be caught. You need to leave for Mexico at the earliest, take another name before they sabotage your real one."

Another gulp, "I won't."

Von Bork closes his eyes, tips his head back, "Joseph Caillaux's wife went viral when his scandals were revealed," he gestures at the newspaper, "you read it yourself. Now imagine your Omega, living all by himself in Scotland, with your darling little pups—"

"That won't happen," Moran cuts him off quickly.

"—going up to the US embassy in London and shooting the Ambassador right in the head like Madame Caillaux. Whoops! Make matters worse for him and for you, wouldn't they? A bloody newspaper editor in France is nothing compared to the ambassador! Come to think of it, it will actually be convenient for us."

Moran's knuckles go wide as he grips the bed furiously, " _My_ Omega is capable of handling emotions."

"Oh, but a crime of _passion_ , colonel!" Von Bork bursts out, and then takes a deep breath, "Heed my advice. I have passport and identities by the name of Dr. Paul Bolo, a French physician studying bacteria cultures. Easy enough to pass into South America. Syphilis is, after all, so much better than a bomb exploding on your head."

Moran closes his eyes, "Not South America, good Lord!"

"—Imagine all those soldiers shooting with one hand and scratching their balls with the other—"

"I can handle this, Charles, I assure you—"

"Alas! Being stubborn will get you nowhere. Your cover is blown, Moran!" Von Bork shakes his head, "And I must insist you to not make my own alias suffer in a similar fashion. It is, and it will, for the foreseeable future, remain Mr. Erik Von Bork, Managing Director of Bridgeport Projectile Company, New York City."

Moran's jaw clenches imperceptibly, "I've fished myself out of worse situations, _Erik_."

Von Bork studies him closely, "You have a reason for staying here, don't you?"

Moran blinks, "Beg your pardon?"

"Oh, how I love you, Moran. You and your little. . . _English_ manners. All that hatred for King and Country hasn't taken away the fulfilment of an English breakfast yet, has it? All that greatness undone by a small knot in the thread of your thoughts: ."

Moran watches him carefully, "What do you mean?"

"Attachment, my friend! Do you really have to be so pedestrian? Do you really think I do not know what passes in that brilliant head of yours? What else is here in Boston that you would not want to leave this horrid city?"

Moran refuses any reaction, even though both of them know very well what. Von Bork sighs, "Very well then, on the head of your loyalty be it. I have another set of documents here. Bonded couple, Claude and Jules Stoughton, in Tijuana, with their sweet newborn baby. They do love babies so much."

Moran frowns, and then understands, "You're not sending _him_ with me."

"Why not? If the reason goes with you, then you need not stay here."

Moran ponders, then smirks, "What about him being your dear live-in one, Erik?"

Von Bork grins, "My dear colonel, you don't have to worry about stealing that wayward Omega away from me. I don't doubt your loyalty—or that of your Bond with your mate, for that case—and he's far too much in love with me to go against me."

Moran narrows his eyes, "Are you saying that he isn't capable of treachery? Need I remind you, he ran away from me more than a year ago. This one is not the typical Omega in love."

"Is that what you mean to say? That he'll desert you once you're out of here?" Von Bork challenges, "I did not know you were such a soft man, colonel."

The corners of his lip turned down, reaching and all-time low, "Fine, but that bastard child is not coming."

"Oh no, no. It's most important that he go," sly eyes meet hard, defiant ones, "Keep an eye out for the horizon, Moran. We need all the brainpower we can get. With Joseph Caillaux under scrutiny, we're close to losing yet another wing. Oh, and Moran, we need someone to take up your cover and continue the good work. . . Have you called back all the feelers I had got out for Sherlock?"

"Let me check," Moran goes through various wires, "All but two. One in Tallahassee and another in. . . Chicago, from where we got him delivered."

"Ah, Morstan. One of my personal favourites, pretty little women. It's been long since her last wire."

Moran pulls out a telegram and his eyes go wide, "Bloody hell, it's been more than—"

"Seven months," Von Bork nods, "Awfully long for someone as quick as her."

"Can't have been intercepted," Moran rubs his temples with his fingers, "seductress spies are hailed as femme fatale by the press. If she had really been caught, such news would always be eye-catching."

Von Bork guffaws, "Femme fatale! I'd give her another month. By then, you'll have completed the task in Tijuana. End of that, you go down and check up on her. If she's still there with those Irish thickheads, send her the pips. If she doesn't come back, shoot on sight. If she's captured, blow up that society or whatever they call themselves, make sure no one lives. I dislike loyal and one-sided spies anyway."

"Implies that you dislike me."

"Oh dear Moran, how can I dislike you? You brought me Mycroft Holmes' younger brother. You gave me the perfect ammunition that this unrest needs."

Something twitches in Moran's jaw, "It seems that I have."

  

* * *

 

Chicago, Saturday, 21st March 1914, 11:33 pm

 

"How do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

John stirs at that name, scrunches up his eyes at the powerful beam of light coming from a narrow crevice in the ceiling, perhaps from the floors above the basement. He has had entertained thoughts of digging it apart to escape, but with his drugged food and water and his exhausted and injured self from repeated torturing over the days, the process would take days, perhaps weeks, if it even managed to go unnoticed.

His eyes adjust to the light, and to the feminine voice. Groaning, he sits up, tasting the metallic tang of blood crusting his chapped lips. Joints and knuckles crack as he turns his head in the direction of the voice.

"Well, that certainly was a performance," Mary says, a hint of amusement in her voice as she comes nearer, not minding the stench of sweat, and sits down cross-legged beside John's pitiful figure, "watching you wake up, Mr. Apparently-Holmes."

John's jaw tightens at this insult to injury. Being far less resilient than they had expected him to be, John had maintained that his name was Sherlock Holmes to all those who had interrogated him in the hopes of getting to John Altamont. But somehow, Mary, out of all the men, knew that this wasn't his real name, and she had taken to calling him Mr. Apparently-Holmes and visiting him in the most ungodliest of hours with amusement practically radiating from her.

"Thank you, but it wasn't for entertainment purposes."

The amusement evaporates from her face, "Tell me how you know Sherlock Holmes."

John frowns at her, maintaining his position, "Well, that's a difficult question, seeing as that is my name."

Mary smiles imperturbably, "They don't know, and I won't tell. Do you think me a fool for visiting you at such a time?"

His jaw tightens, "Know what?"

"Ah, ah," she keeps a firm hand on his shoulder and helps him up, "don't move too much. These wounds are waiting to burst open. . ." she meets his eyes fleetingly and John finds himself powerless to return even her glance. It's been almost half-a-month into his captivity, and yet his reluctant and grudging admiration of her nerves hadn't diminished by even a fraction. Sometimes he wonders whether she knows.

"I can take care of myself," he shoves her hand away, and winces at the pain the arm movement causes. Mary chuckles.

"Men," she shakes her head, "I've never met someone as stubborn as you."

"Same here."

She looks into his eyes, "And hence you justify my need to put forth pressing questions: how do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

John looks to his left, and then directly into her eyes, "Just some name. . . I came across in newspapers," and then he turns defensive, "Why? Does he mean something to you?"

She ignores him, "It's not a name you come across every day. Aliases are everyday names."

"Not an alias," John tries weakly, but Mary overrides him.

"You're on a personal quest. Infiltrators are not as irresponsible as you are, and they certainly wouldn't pick an alias like this, not when it was a notorious name a couple of years ago, and publicly known as an Omega. And if you were one of those, you would've been in a worse position than simply being stripped naked and beaten to an inch of your life, Mr. Apparently-Holmes."

John clenches his fist at the thought, "You've done your homework."

"Sherlock Holmes means something. . . _someone_ to you, doesn't he? Obvious conclusion, being his Alpha. Plus the fact that he's Bonded."

John tries not to reel with panic. There was no way Sherlock would've let that slip, "Who are you?"

She smirks, "Answer my question first, and I'll answer yours."

John shakes his head, "Nah, I don't trust you."

"Would you trust me if I told you that he is in Boston, to the best of my knowledge?"

John had an inkling that Mary was . . . somewhat out of the jigsaw that made up the secret society, and yet he couldn't bring himself to trust her.

"Listen, woman," John fixes her with hard eyes, "you're deluding yourself. I don't know any Sherlock Holmes. All I know is that I came here looking for John Altamont, for which I was treated most discourteously."

To his surprise, there's an emotion in her eyes, hitherto foreign in her nature. Something like respect emanates from her at the authentic sound of his voice. Looking at her impassively till she's forced to lower her eyes, he says in a growl, "Try not to disturb my rest. I have plenty of beating to take tomorrow."

And with a groan, he turns away from her and pulls the sheet around himself, as if a shield from that woman. Was Sherlock really in Boston? For John had a way of finding Sherlock in Chicago, and it had landed him in this mess, but he had no idea how to find Sherlock in a city like Boston. He didn't even know where it was! And he had no way to communicate back with Mycroft. If only he had accepted Mycroft's offer of a bodyguard, though John had a most random thought that Mycroft, out of his lack of confidence in his abilities, would've sent some sort of backup after him.

He feels a bittersweet satisfaction when he hears Mary give a dejected sigh and rise, layers of her clothing rustling against her body. With a semi-audible whisper of "love", she closes the door behind her, plunging the room in a state of darkness only penetrated by a beam of light, and John into an aura of suspicion and thoughts that were almost entirely Mary in nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oo History notes:
> 
> 1) 'Caillaux' here refers to the case of the murder of Gaston Calmette, editor of _Le Figaro_ , by Henriette Caillaux after Calmette began publishing scandalous letters from Joseph Caillaux to Henriette while the former was still married to his first wife. In this highly controversial trial, she was acquitted after her lawyer managed to convince the jury that hers was a crime of 'uncontrollable female passion' (complete BS, I know) caused by the endangering of her and her husband's socio-political status.
> 
> Later, Joseph Caillaux was hailed as a traitor and charged of high treason when it became known that he had sympathies for the German. If Von Bork really existed and if Caillaux really passed him information, the former would've been eager to dispatch the latter as soon as investigation into Caillaux's life began.
> 
> 2) Dr. Dilger here refers to Dr. Anton Dilger, the main propagator of biological warfare in WWI. Ironically, he died of Spanish flu pandemic after he moved to Spain. From Von Bork's contacts, this guy would no doubt be there high up in the network.


	28. Monsters In The Closet

Veracruz, Mexico. Monday, 6th April 1914, 12:33 pm

 

Miguel Gonzalez is not a man to be toyed with. With five white businesses and several underground, and a private army of four Brazilian henchmen to deflect any attack on him, and with his enormous influence on the Mexican president, Miguel Gonzalez is not a man to be toyed with.

Miguel Gonzalez also happens to be the man Sherlock needs to deal with, not only for the colonel's dirty work, but also to gain information from. The only man who can give him the information he needs to incriminate Von Bork. It wasn't as if he would suspect Sherlock, sweet little Omega Sherlock who went into Heat whenever it was most inconvenient for him.

Maybe having Von-Bork as his one-sided lover isn't all that inconvenient.

 

~~~

 

When Moran and Sherlock arrive at the port city of Veracruz as Claude and Jules Stoughton, the situation is close to that of war, almost like that of a dress rehearsal of the unrest building in the world as they know. The country of Mexico is simmering with turmoil in the light of its poor relations with its influential neighbour, the States.

And it's the perfect season for Moran, as an alleged resident of Mexico City, to slip into the country and put all his emergency measures into action.

Veracruz welcomes them with a deep purple dusk, full of neon lighting and the Naval Academy. Moran gazes passively at the activity around the port and lights a cigarette to drink in the smoke leisurely. Tom, who can now almost walk without Sherlock's help, struggles against his mother's protective arms that had held him while crossing the seawall.

"No, Thomas," Sherlock orders, "I'm not letting you down here."                     

Tom makes irritated noises that vaguely sound like  _own_  and  _go_ , but Sherlock's arms around him are tight, unaware of the colonel's inspecting gaze on the two of them. They go to the customs, and from there Moran makes a visit to the telegraph office. There's a private Ford waiting for them behind the customs office, with the driver. Moran dismisses the driver coolly, hands him some money and leaves for the town, not speaking much.

By now, Tom has grown enough to know that he must be quiet when the colonel is in a mood such as he is now. Little fingers curl around the edge of the door as Sherlock smacks it, saying, "Your fingers will get stuck in the door," like a mother hen. Wide eyes, mouth hangs open when his inexperienced eyes see new places around himself, places that are not the sprawling metropolis of Boston, or the smell of medicine and castor oil of the day care centre. Sherlock, in the backseat with Tom, watches over his boy carefully, unaware, again of Moran looking at the two of them in the rear view mirror. Then he begins to speak.

"I'm sure you're familiar with this business of alias, are you not, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock throws him a funny look, "Need you ask?"

Moran smirks, "I know. Just thought that I should tell you all that Mr. Von Bork hasn't told you."

"Hmm," Sherlock looks out of the window, thinking  _Mr. Von Bork, Managing Director of Bridgeport Projectile Company_  and his real name—Charles.

"So, that obviously includes an in-depth knowledge of what Mr. Von Bork  _has_  told you."

"Hmm. . . I'm sure repetition wouldn't do you any loss."

Moran releases a huge smoke cloud, and Sherlock tells himself that he won't eagerly sniff the smoke this time.

"I have some business—both in Veracruz and Tijuana. Of course, I don't expect you to come to Tijuana with me because when I leave this town, I'll leave for you certain work that will, in no way, endanger the child."

"Thomas," Sherlock corrects sternly. Tom turns around sharply to look at his mother confusedly, as if he's the victim here, "Very well then. When do you leave?"

"Eager to have me out of sight, eh, Mr. Holmes?"

"You have no idea how much."

Moran chuckles softly, "It'll be a while. We'll be here a month, so I made sure that your lodgings were comfortable enough."

"And yours won't be?"

"I never said that."

"But that's the only possibility, seeing as there's no way we'll share the same space until the end of the world. We'd kill each other in two days."

Moran smirks through the mirror and Sherlock can't believe it, the way his heart skips a beat, "I'll be staying with you. The Tijuana business will take hardly a couple of days."

 _I should hope so_ , Sherlock says inwardly. Tom gives him a needy look, and then his lap.

"Oh no, child," he restrains Tom with one hand, "You're not sitting on my lap. You've got to learn how to sit properly by yourself."

Tom looks at him with faux-pleading eyes, which don't fool Sherlock at all. Just then, the car gives an almighty lurch and Tom cries out, horribly shaken, and grabs Sherlock from the side. Frightened, he gives a hiccup and starts to cry, just as Sherlock ushers him and holds him close protectively. Even more scared, he launches into a full-blown sob.

"Shut up, shut up," Sherlock can hear Moran muttering impatiently under his breath, but Thomas—who miraculously isn't afraid of the sight of gun and blood, yet shaken just because of a pothole in the road—won't stop, no matter how much Sherlock pulls his collection of funny faces, or rocks and cradles him in his arms.

"Will you stop that crying bundle of yours?" Moran cries out at last, thoroughly irritated.

Sherlock gives Moran a deathly glare as he rubs Tom's back and hopelessly tries to entertain him with a rubber toy, "Well, pardon me if Thomas gets scared because of your inexpert driving."

For a second Moran almost looks upset, but then he regains his composure, "Well, Mr. Holmes, you should've left him in Boston, like I suggested. You can't possibly blame me for the condition of roads in this abominable country—"

Sherlock looks at Moran, aghast, "Are you out of your mind, colonel? Thomas is my child, my only child! Sometimes I wonder if you really are a father."

Tom lets out even a bigger cry upon being ignored by his mother.

"There, now," Moran speaks patronisingly, "momma made poor Thomas cry again."

Before Sherlock can give him an angry look, Moran continues unaffectedly, "Fortunately, we have an extremely capable babysitter at the lodgings. Since it’s for almost a month, I had the foresight to hire one for Thomas."

Sherlock is caught off-guard, "That's, er . . . very thoughtful of you."

The colonel meets Sherlock's eyes and just. . . smiles. A rare, genuine smile that he's never given to Sherlock. Their eyes, they meet, linger. And then they dart away, like rats into darkness.

"Who knew?" Moran dissipates the tension by adopting a more jovial tone as he changes the gear clumsily, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

Indeed.

 

* * *

 

 

Their "lodgings", as Moran put it, consist of a little guest house, sturdily built, the keepers being a frail old Mexican woman and her English-speaking son, Irepani (who preferred to be called by the anglicised version of his name 'Pan'). Tom stares up at their faces—he loves faces, more so such exotic ones. It seems, as Sherlock makes out from the colonel's demeanour, that the woman's son works for the colonel. But that is of little consequence to Sherlock when the old woman, she beckons to Tom, and Tom wants Sherlock to let him go, let him down, with an exclamation of "ooh" and making his blue eyes larger. After a minute of consideration, Sherlock lets the old woman, Sesasi, take Tom in her arms, and is surprised by her strength, for Tom is heavy, heavier than the average 15 month old, owing to Sherlock's prompt actions after the doctor had declared Tom underweight.

Not to mention the distrust he feels because of his inability to understand the indigenous tongue in which she converses with her son. But when she does look at Tom, it is with such a tender expression, full of love and enjoyment at the happy blond baby with a vocabulary of about 3 words, that they don't need any language to connect over and to forget Sherlock's presence.

Moran smirks and draws closer, "Baby Thomas left momma. My condolences."

"Shut. Up," Sherlock grits through his teeth.

"Well then, I suppose we won't be needing the nanny then, so that's that."

 

* * *

 

 

Veracruz, Mexico. Monday, 6th April 1914, 5:33 pm

 

It's only by dusk when Moran gets to get out of that shit hole of laughter and entertainment. Overall, Pan is a good host and his mother a good cook. And it is always so amusing to see Sherlock burning in jealously, here at that old woman, who can handle and entertain Tom so much better, Tom who seems to have forgotten Sherlock completely. But the whole day was gone to waste, and he'd have to start early tomorrow morning. For killing oneself off isn't an easy task.

And nor is selling off a very irksome child.

Not that Thomas is all that irksome, it's just that Sherlock would be so much better off without the burden of that bastard child. But, for some reason, Sherlock  _insists_  being with that little thumbsucker, to spend his valuable time playing and teaching and  _bloody_  nursing that thing.

He had been told to get rid of Thomas, and that's what was in Sherlock's best interests. Yes, Sherlock would be much better off without the burden of that worthless thing.

And it's an advantage, that Thomas is an attractive baby. White baby, blond hair, blue eyes. Perfect for sale. And just for some wretched peace of mind, he had arranged Thomas to be sold off to a wealthy, childless couple. Both of them, mother and child, will be so much better off without each other.

The nearest telegraph office is only half a mile away. Unwilling to draw attention to his sudden departure, Moran decides to not take the automobile. Anyway, he's chosen the lodgings such that all services, including staging a kidnapping in the nearby market so that said kidnappers could flee easily without much resistance, are nearby and easily accessible. Or, in case that fails, Sherlock's trust in the old woman's affection towards Thomas is such that a burglary can be easily arranged in that house while Sherlock is away at work.

At any rate, Thomas has to go.

 

* * *

 

 

When Moran exits the telegraph office, he is surprised to see a familiar automobile parked not far away from him.

And considerably less surprised to see a certain mischievous, pain-in-the-behind Omega mistress leaning against it.

Moran's always found Sherlock's unintended attention a tad too annoying, even dropped hints on several occasions that he's Bonded and that charms would hold no lure for him. For it is indeed so difficult to tell temptation from reality, and he'd learnt his lessons when Sherlock escaped, hoodwinked him the first time in New York City. Back then, he thought he had that posh Omega under his spell, that Sherlock was charmed and hooked back then, having been convinced that however clever, an Omega is like a sweet little country girl, devoted and vulnerable. But no, he had to turn Milady. He had to betray. He had to spoil his hard work and uncover his deeds to the BOI and it's because of Sherlock that he's now a wanted man in England. Oh, what would the kids say. . .

On top of that, Sherlock had to delay the war for two long years. War that was inevitable. It's only then that Moran had realised, to his horror, just how much Sherlock had been controlling his part of the web within such a short time. In the little time that they had had, Moran understood just how valuable an ally Sherlock could be. If only he had then worked on their side.

Yet, as of late, Moran has started to find his guards swaying, ready to fall at the slightest provocation, like tiles of dominoes, falling one upon the other. He's always thought it impossible, kept it ignored like a perilous tendril underestimated, not knowing that one day, left unchecked, it would grow, grow and claim him whole.

"Practising stalking talents, are we?" Moran smirks, "Not so competent."

"Not unlike you, colonel. A man of your stature and your criminal record will always need some assistance. Hence the automobile—"

"Of course," Moran cuts across him and pulls open the car door against which Sherlock had been leaning, gaining himself a throaty chuckle from him. Ducks inside, and revs up the engine. Sherlock watches him amusedly, and under that nose, Moran, surprisingly, feels like a child.

When the car door doesn't open behind him, he rolls the window down and sticks his head out, "Are you going to get in or not?"

"I know a nice place," Sherlock says, "saw on my way here. They say there used to be beheadings nearby, this place, long ago, and the skulls thrown into open sea in a ritual, to appease the goddess of ocean, or something like that."

Moran's eyes narrow upon those of Sherlock, and then he chuckles, "You just made that up."

Sherlock frowns, "I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"Alright, fine, I did."

"Your lack of knowledge, as always Mr. Holmes, is so predictable. The ancient civilizations were nowhere near as barbaric as the English make them sound."

"Oh, you'd know that?"

"I graduated with honours in history from Oxford," there's a smugness in his voice, something he's never been able to hide, "Hence, I know."

"Then why such an extraordinary obsession with rifles, colonel? Every barrel of your guns cleaned and polished to an inch of its life!"

"You could've chosen to stay with Von Bork, playing the little mistress and feeding that child. Then why come here with me and demand explanations for my decisions?"

That shuts Sherlock up completely. Moran takes a deep breath, remembering that Sherlock coming here with Thomas was the second half of the work that had to be done, "I served in the second Afghan war, Mr. Holmes. There are things I've seen which can't be unseen. There are things I've done which can't be undone."

"Is that supposed to scare me?"

"If you're wise enough, yes."

Sherlock takes a deep breath. Moran looks outside, towards the sky. The vermilion hue has disappeared completely. Time to end the charade.

"You're only nineteen, Omega. You've seen nothing of life."

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they are back at the lodgings, the flirty playfulness between the two has completely disappeared. Sherlock hoped that since Von Bork has always been so tight-lipped about Mycroft, maybe the colonel can shed some light on the matter. Yes, they want war, some old boring story, but what does Mycroft have to do with it? Only explanation: Mycroft is perhaps in a position to contradict their plans, yes, but how? Oh, he wants to know, wants to know, what the smug bastard has been up to all this time, he wants to know.

And what does Von Bork think Sherlock will be able to do once he does get to him? They hadn't spoken—not even seen each other—in two years. Two years of self-imposed exile, and he'll surface and Mycroft will accept him back? Not that easy.

And Thomas? Sherlock had considered the option of returning to Mycroft once he knew for sure that he had conceived. No, no, impossible. Mycroft mustn't know about Thomas' existence, wherever he is. Yes, Victor is in the past, but, but, honour. . . Although Mycroft has always considered himself above petty things like honour, Sherlock knows, he knows. He knows the consequences of showing himself, he's imagined the worst case scenarios and he's convinced that they'll be reality one day.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Colonel's voice cracks. Sherlock returns back to the present; they're back at the lodgings, Moran waiting for him outside coolly.

Stepping out of the car door, he notices an arm out for him, waiting, like that of John, at the foot of the Grand staircase, all those days ago, all those nights ago underneath the dome, under the dusky sky streaked with purples and vermilions, in all that wasn't his and yet he wore and pretended proudly: the night he met Moran in person, for the first time.

Sherlock frowns to himself. Where the hell did that come from?

"What's this?"

Moran raises an impassive eyebrow, "We're Bonded, remember? Let's not pretend that we've spent the last fifteen minutes in the automobile in complete silence and join the company inside in jolly mood."

Sherlock ignores the arm and gives him a fake smile, "I don't like jolly mood. Good evening."

In an instant, his back collides with the cool metal of the car, sound of a dull metallic thud ringing out in the crisp air. Strong, dominating grip around Sherlock's right wrist as if trying to snap the joints into two, a knee pressed hard into his lower abdomen. A long time ago, the colonel had tried to tackle Sherlock when his plans had been exposed, in front of Jennifer Wilson, but there had been John to deflect the attack. It's then that Sherlock finally realises that it doesn't matter anymore. That John really is a distant ghost. For all his memories are being replaced by ones that are of a more sinister nature, not unlike the man in front of him.

Moran's eyebrows are knitted together, his handsome face taking on a brutish apprearance. Voice gruff and low, as it comes and Sherlock looks back into his eyes defiantly, not fighting back, for it is foolish to fight back he who means him no real harm, despite his claims.

"I thought you were better than petty violence," Sherlock splutters, unexpectedly choking at the strong stench of chewed tobacco, "Sebastian."

"Don't test me, Omega. Von Bork might tolerate this attitude, but I don't. You work under me, you listen to what I say. You do what I tell you to. Got it?"

With that, eyes ringed with black, he loosens his grip on Sherlock with a final look at his face, and extends his arm once again. Sherlock glances at it coolly, gives a disdainful chuckle.

Moran's eyes narrow, "What?"

"I actually thought you were progressive deep down, about genders," Sherlock grits his teeth, still smirking, "You're just like Victor Trevor, colonel," like that, he takes his arm and lowers his voice, "And your end will just like be Victor Trevor's."

Moran is impassive for a minute, and then quietly leads Sherlock inside.

 

* * *

 

 

Taking off his coat and treading up the wooden stairs as silently as he can, Sherlock is greeted by an annoying-but-not-unpleasant sight of his hostess cradling Tom—a sleeping Tom!—rocking him gently back and forth. He's about to tell her that she can leave when he remembers that she doesn't understand English.

He knocks on the door. The woman is old, by God, even Mrs. Hudson wasn't this old, God bless her. And, oh dear, there's no cradle, and he isn't sure if Thomas can sleep with him, on the cot, and, oh, he just remembered, there's only a single cot in this room. Why, oh, why were they pretending to be Bonded—of course, it was just a precaution. Moran doesn't want them to be identified. Damn.

Sesasi turns back to look at him. Dark, glazed face criss-crossed with wrinkles and not a single grey hair despite her age gives her an artificial, prematurely old sort of look, for Sherlock isn't very used to seeing dark skinned women. Smiling courteously, she lays Tom down on the cot and bows to a mildly awkward Sherlock who then, having no idea of how to respond, simply chooses not to respond and go back to his sleeping baby.

"I, er, comprehender," Sesasi begins, and Sherlock turns to look at her in surprise, "little bit. . ." she gestures with her hand to show him a pinch of something, "Eenglish."

Sherlock looks at her for sometime, observing, deducing the dinner she's going to prepare, and then nods carefully, "It's okay, I know Spanish."

The old woman looks puzzled, "¿Perdón?"  _Pardon?_

"I mean, esta bien," Sherlock struggles to remember. He knows Spanish, had to study it ages ago as a part of all that he had to study as an Omega, but that doesn't mean he is all that good at it, "Entiendo español."  _I understand Spanish._

The woman's crinkly face turns into an even crinklier smile, "Me alegra oír eso."  _I'm glad to hear it_. Slowly making her way towards Sherlock, she keeps a tentative hand on his shoulder, "Tiene un hermoso niño."  _You have a beautiful child._

Sherlock tenses at the contact of her skin. It's been so long since someone has chosen to simply touch him, other than sexual contact, and that of Thomas.

"Gracias."  _Thank you._

"Jugamos todo el día juntos," she says, leaning over the cot, watching the breathing of the little child raising his little chest rhythmically.  _We played the whole day together._

"Huh."

"No mucho," she continues fondly, "Yo le enseñé algunas palabras. En español. No es mi lengua materna. Pero es el único idioma que conozco."  _Nothing much. I taught him a few words. In Spanish. It is not my own language. But it is the only other language that I know._

Sherlock looks at her, bewildered, "El habló. . . palabras?"  _He spoke. . . words?_

"¡Oh si!" she bursts out laughing as quiet as she can without waking Tom, "Oh, habla! ¡Cómo habla! Tan rápido, yo no podía entender un poco."  _Oh yes! Oh, he speaks! How he speaks! So fast, I couldn't understand a bit._

Sherlock turns to her, the magic woman, the woman with the brown burnt wrinkled skin and the greying hair. Her eyes, they are dark underneath, tired, and beneath her mirth is a black cloud, he can see, a black cloud of loneliness that runs in a vicious cycle of segregation, from the world. His eyes dart towards her palms, they are so pitiful, with flaky skin of eczema, except it isn't eczema. Her entire form speaks of giving and giving and no receiving, only giving till the end of time, until there is no cruel son to feed and nurture.

Oh, Thomas _spoke_. Something other than Da-da. And of course, he couldn’t be there to hear him speak.

Her eyes grow wary under his scrutiny, and she parries it by going over to Tom, "Él debe haber necesitado otra alimentación por ahora."  _He should've needed another feeding by now_ , "¿No es usted demasiado joven? Para tener un bebé, quiero decir."  _Aren't you too young? To have a baby, I mean._

Sherlock clears his throat uncomfortably, resisting from telling her that he has doing fine. And it seems like she decodes his manner, "Es decir, un bebé sano entregado a una edad tan tierna."  _I mean, such a healthy baby delivered at such a tender age._

That cheers Sherlock considerably up.

"La primera vez que concibió cuando tenía veinte años," she doesn't look away from Tom, "Nacido muerto."  _I first conceived when I was twenty. Stillborn._

Sherlock hears that and straightens up to look at her. The black cloud seems darker now, her shoulders slouched by an invisible burden, "I'm so—Quiero decir, Lo siento."  _I mean to say, I'm sorry._

She doesn't hear him, "Amo a mi Irepani."  _I love my Irepani._

Still unsure about what more to say, Sherlock remains quiet, too quiet that the silence starts to speak its discomfort. He, a long standing player with death, has had little time to devote to thinking of death itself. Back then, when he had been pregnant, he had never given much serious thought about Thomas' health and condition during pregnancy. Sure, he had gone into hiding, but that had primarily been because a baby bump would have revealed his gender, and that was all he had been worried about. He remembers his wonder at seeing Thomas for the first time, so incredibly perfect, and it's harrowing to finally realise just how wrong it could all have gone. At that age. . . it had been a gamble, an irresponsible thing to do to a child.

But then, he would've had been Bonded to Victor anyway, had he not Bonded to John. He would have got pregnant anyway. Out of the two, he knows he chose the right Alpha, all the while not realising that he could've been stronger and firmer and taken the third choice, the choice he had not considered at all. . . The choice where he would not have known Thomas.

"En cualquier caso, Omegas consiguen a menudo las mejores instalaciones médicas, por lo que no es de extrañar," she says with a sigh.  _At any rate, Omegas often get the best medical facilities, so no wonder._

"Huh."  _You have no idea._

It's just then that he hears a strange sound, a sound he hasn't heard ever, and yet he knows what it is, having been explained about this phenomenon somewhat in detail by the doctor at the day care in Boston. He's even consulted two other psychologists about the condition without any answers on trauma in babies. Clearly it isn't a very mainstream idea, but a problem is a problem nonetheless.

Soft sobs come from a partly-awake Tom, and whether it is because he is sad, or frightened, no one knows. Seemingly unaware of his own crying, more as if it is an involuntary action on his part, Tom curls further into himself. And frankly, involuntary tears should have been impossible, but they aren’t, oh no they aren’t. And that is exactly what shocks Sherlock into springing upright and is at the other side of the bed in an instant, holding Tom close to his chest, trying to stop his sniffs and sobs—

“Oh no no no no, no de esa manera! No apoya la cabeza de su hijo de esa manera!” A previously-lifeless Sesasi jumps and cries out high-pitched, almost as if she’s forgotten her age. _Oh no no no no, not in that manner! You do not support your child’s head in that way!_

With this, she snatches Tom away from the arms of a shocked Sherlock utterly perplexed at her outburst, "Se trata de cómo se sostenga la cabeza del bebé. Ver . . .” _This is how you hold your baby's head. See._

Mutely and slightly irritated at being taught about how to be a good mother hen, Sherlock watches with narrowed eyes as she gently cooes him into consolation, “Este es el problema con ustedes los nuevos Omega momia. Sólo las mujeres deben ser madres, no pseudo-hombres.” _This is the problem with you new Omega mommies. Only women should be mothers, not pseudo-men._

“Queja en contra de la orden de la naturaleza, ¿verdad?”  _Complaining against the order of nature, are we?_

Only the sound of Tom’s sniffling punctuated the question posed in that deep voice.

Sesasi stiffens, while a surprised Sherlock turns to face Moran standing at the door, topcoat and a Scotch in one arm, usually slick blond hair somewhat ruffled, looking at both of them sternly. The colonel strides into the room casually, checking his pocket watch, “Jules y yo estaremos allí para la cena a las 8:30, precisamente,” _Jules and I will be there for supper at 8:30 precisely,_ he says with a charming smile that seems to send an alarmed Sesasi close to hysteria at an Alpha having overheared her conversation with his Omega.

“S-s-sí señor.” _Y-y-yes sir._

With that she promptly hands a still-distressed Thomas to Sherlock, before taking swift leave of them both. Moran peeks after her and then bolts the door close behind her retreating back.

Sherlock clings to Thomas tighter when Moran turns to face him, and tries not to pay him attention when he feels his approach. Most times, he can’t help but feel even more protective towards Thomas, especially when in front of Moran, Moran who doesn’t pose any threat to him or his baby, regardless of his dislike for Thomas.

Thomas whines; wide blue watery eyes look up at him, and then to the towering Alpha in front of them. Sherlock follows his gaze up to Moran’s impassive but gravely set face. In the privacy of the closed room, he seems larger and much widely built than Sherlock knows he is. His coffee-brown waistcoat clings to his white shirt, flattering his figure, the gold chain of his pocket watch dull in the dim light. Another set of blue eyes look at him, this one without any emotion, and after a blink and a sigh, Moran puts down the Scotch on the tea table and sits on the bed beside Sherlock, who still pretends to be doing something, anything, unimportant or not.

“I apologise for my behavior outside, Mr. Holmes,” he says in a very low voice, “I was—It wasn’t proper of me to behave in that manner. I have no right to discipline someone else’s Omega in that way.”

Tom, who had remained sniffling and morose till now, looks at Moran like a judge of the law court, appraising him in his own “ooh-aah” language.

Sherlock looks at that pathetic Alpha with disgust. Here he’s apologizing like the very oh-so-noble Alpha that he was, and yet he has the nerve to make it sound like he thinks it his right—even if it is the case with Moran’s Bonded. He talked as if he was still qualified to discipline anyone else even after that sort of disrespectful outburst.

“So, you’re saying this is how you “discipline” _your_ Omega, do you?”

Moran scoffs at that double meaning, “Believe me, Mr. Holmes, I have no interest in disciplining you as my Omega.”

“Which I am not.”

“Which you are not,” Moran reaffirms, looking at him. Sherlock feels a little flutter in his traitorous heart. His knees being in danger of touching Moran’s legs. Tom shifts in his lap, prompting Sherlock to release the breath he hadn’t realized he’s been holding.

Moran draws away, dissipating the tension in one swift move, “On a more positive note, I have some work for you,” he hands Sherlock a small file, “Just some outdoor work; Mr. Von Bork had asked me not to strain you more than required, but I do not hold his views. I hope you haven’t thought that you were supposed to be on a holiday here.”

“Work,” Sherlock drawls, tossing the files aside and raising an eyebrow at Moran, “How very exciting.”

Tom mutters under his breath, in what seems like disapproval at Sherlock’s cavalier attitude. Sometimes he actually wonders if Tom knows, really knows, in the silences he has shared with his child, in the moments his baby has caught him watching Moran from afar. Perhaps he does. After all, Tom is _his_ child.

Moran continues as if he’s heard nothing, opening the Scotch and pouring it in the only glass in the room, “And of course, you’ll have to leave the child behind—”

“Thomas.”

“—Thomas behind in the house,” Moran raises his voice over Sherlock’s, “It’s a tricky task, Mr. Holmes, and of course, I’d prefer if you kept your mouth filter on.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him like an insulted prima-donna, trying to restrain Tom’s usual attempts to break free of his grip, “What is _that_ supposed to mean?!”

Moran looks at him derisively and takes a sip of the drink, “Which means that the Alpha you will be meeting up with, Mr. Holmes, keeps a gun in each of his pockets and if he doesn’t like you, he might shoot you right away. Just like he shoots the pigeons who shit on his automobile.”

Sherlock smirks, “Oh, I imagine you’d love that.”

“I’d prefer he keep the shooting till the job’s done. Anyway, I think Thomas will be perfectly safe in here, so you can work as well as you please. Drink?”

The sudden change in argument about Thomas causes Sherlock to look up at Moran suspiciously, to look up at a seemingly innocent Moran somehow very interested in his face and the glass between them. Sherlock frowns; Omegas aren’t supposed to drink, not that Sherlock believes in all that crap, but the colonel does.

“No thank you. You’ve already said that.”

“Yes I have,” Moran dismisses him with a wave of his hand, “Anyway, Miguel Gonzalez. He singlehandedly controls a good amount of gunpowder export from the America to the British Empire, supplier of opium into America—”

“Opium?” Sherlock frowns.

Disregarding Sherlock’s curiosity, Moran carries on, “He is the man you want. He and Mr. Von Bork have been in correspondence with one another, and he now expects a representative,” he sighs and leans back against the bedrest to undo his tie and collar, “We thought it best to send you,” here, Moran pauses, as if he were clearly very uncomfortable with something, “being an Omega.”

Sherlock laughs heartily, startling Tom into hiccups, all the while eliciting no reaction from Moran, “So I have to pull another mistress act, do I? How very hypocritical of you, dear colonel! In Boston, you were all for “the grand designs you had for me”, and now this?! No, thank you. I will not help you in this,” after some deliberation, he adds, “I’m fully committed to Erik.”

The last statement takes Moran by surprise, Sherlock notes with some satisfaction. But his next words only communicate distrust, “Are you?”

“Of course I am,” Sherlock replies, testing Moran as he passes Sherlock’s trials one by one, “Why wouldn’t I be? He’s my employer, and he’s an Alpha. Attractive, one would say.”

“You don’t work for people, Mr. Holmes. You said that yourself.”

“But I do work for Erik. With Erik. And I know,” he swallows his lies, “that he’ll never use me in the manner that you have proposed.”

Moran straightens up to fully face Sherlock, “And what if I told you that it was Mr. Von Bork who proposed to send you to Gonzalez? And that I was the one who protested against bringing you and your party here?”

Sherlock looks him squarely in the eye, in the sternest manner possible. Moran had just passed his final test, “Then I would say, to him, that he should be careful of a side-talking Judas among his apostles.”

As if timed, Thomas breaks into sobs once again. It’s slowly getting on Sherlock’s nerves, Thomas’ incessant crying. And then he remembers that it is time for his feeding. He begins to unbutton his shirt, uncaring of a Moran seething with rage in front of him.

“Now turn around, Thomas needs to be fed.”

Moran clenches his fists, face flushed brick-red, “Did you just brand me a traitor?”

“If you won’t turn around, then I will.”

And with that, Sherlock turns his back to the colonel and unbuttons his shirt. Tom, by now skilling at the art of suckling, looks up at Sherlock with those adorable wide blue eyes, trusting, taking him in, and just stares. Sherlock least expects a large rough hand on his back until he hears the clink of the glass, of the sound of the stopper being fitted into the mouth of the whisky, and the dull thud of the pistol on the tea table. Sherlock clutches his baby tighter, for he mustn’t see the pistol, and for a precious moment Thomas lets go of his left breast, to take a small break from nursing and just stare at his mother as if he just can’t have enough of Sherlock. Little beads of perspiration have formed on his upper lip, and Sherlock wipes them away tenderly, while Thomas continues to blow bubbles into the milk.

Wiping the milk away, Sherlock collects the rest in a small baby bottle till Thomas is ready once again, this time the right. His right one always hurts more than the left, and Thomas has this bad habit of biting while Sherlock nursed him. Sherlock brushes his blond hair back with his thumb, the colonel being the last thing on his mind.

“You spoke, did you?” Sherlock whispers to a Thomas still engrossed in his feeding. “Why don’t you speak in front of me?”

As if almost understanding him, Thomas lets go of his right breast and gives a baby-sigh. Sherlock wipes the milk from his face, and Thomas opens his mouth. Opens and Sherlock, for one second almost believes that there’s words about to come out of that little mouth and those moist pink lips would move to say something, anything in English, Spanish, anything other than just Da-da and banana and gu-gu.

Yawning, Thomas promptly goes back to prodding Sherlock’s right nipple with his lips, and Sherlock sighs, letting the baby have his way.

 

* * *

 

 

Veracruz, Mexico. Tuesday, 7th April 1914, 12:03 am

 

Colonel Sebastian Moran is usually a sound sleeper.

When he sleeps, he dreams. When he dreams, he sees desert and mud and grass. He sees camouflage, he sees the white tigers of India and he sees their carcasses. He sees the nawab of Bengal, and he sees the first tiger that he had killed with him. And then he sees a child, and blood. And then he wakes up, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

Tonight, however, was different.

After the dinner, there was a dilemma over where to sleep. Pan and his mother considered him and Sherlock a Bonded couple, and naturally they were thought of to be sharing beds.

Behind their bolted door was another story.

Moran had taken the floor, so that Sherlock and his child could sleep on the bed. Fair enough, he could be that much chivalrous at the least. They did not have a cradle or a separate cot for Thomas. If not for that child, he’d have been sleeping comfortably in the bed. But, for the first time he’s thankful for Thomas. He can’t bear to share the bed with Sherlock. Sherlock who is faithful to his boss. To his employer, Alpha, attractive.

To be honest. Sherlock’s arguments don’t make much sense to Moran. He had also been, once upon a time, Sherlock’s boss, in theory. He was also an Alpha. And he knows he’s damn attractive. . .

 _Stop_ , his brain ordered. It wasn’t prudent to proceed in that line of thinking again.

Moran shifts to his side, swatting away any mosquitoes feasting on his body. Why his boss? Why not . . . _him_?

What had he done wrong? What had Von Bork done to completely charm Sherlock that he hadn’t been able to do? What had he done differently? Is Von Bork more Alpha than he is?

The answer comes almost easily to him, soothing his wounded pride somewhat. _They had sex. On an almost regular basis._

Hmm, that explained a lot, Moran thinks. Give ‘em sex, and they’ll drool all over you. Sherlock’s Bonded, Von Bork, that’s what they had done to capture Sherlock down. What he hadn’t done. What he cannot do.

Although, instinct tells him that that is not the case. Sherlock isn’t that. . . _type_.

At any rate, it’s too late to be thinking such unproductive thoughts. He’s got to wake early tomorrow. He has less than a week to get rid of Thomas.

 

* * *

 

 

State, War and Navy Building. Washington DC. Tuesday, 7th April 1914, 7:33 pm

 

Mycroft isn’t having a good start of the month.

Still in his office after 7, Mycroft took it as a sign that he was regressing. Mycroft is an Alpha of discipline, a 9 to 5 Alpha. Whatever comes after 5 can wait, for it is always unimportant.

However, as of late, a lot of important news had been coming to Mycroft after 4:30 pm. He dislikes working overtime, but his work is such that it compels him to stay in his office till late nights.

“Tea, sir?”

Mycroft looks up to see Andrea watching him with concern. He immediately composes himself and wipes the beads of sweat off his forehead. She was his only English solace, besides Mrs. Hudson. Even the tea did not taste the same as it did in London.

“Yes please.”

She goes out for a moment, and then returns, “In five minutes, sir.”

“Thank you, Andrea. You should go home now. I’ll be back by nine. Just ask Mrs. Hudson to warm the food for me, thanks.”

“Very well, sir.”

After she’s gone, Mycroft relaxes his pose again, in such a way as he never lets the world see him. As Head of the Office of Naval Intelligence, Mycroft Holmes is never seen slouching. He stands tall, owning the space around him, a formidable figure with eyes that always seem to be tutting at someone.

An opened telegram was the source of the worrisome news plaguing him. A German registered cargo-ship _SS Ypiranga_ was about to leave the Hamburg port in 3 days, due to reach Boston on the 16th of April, carrying a good amount of arms shipment, most of it possibly illegal, which had actually originated in the US itself, under the name of a certain John Wesley De Kay, a sausage seller in Mexico turned-playright in New York. A peculiar source.

Mycroft had ordered background checks in his name, to ensure that he wasn’t a spy operating under a fake name, but so far, De Kay seemed clean. But the volume of the cargo was disturbing.

Also, budget cuts had been announced a few days prior. Budget cuts in their department, which came to Mycroft as a complete turn-around. The Wilson administration, suddenly of the opinion that intelligence gathering was not a very important task for a huge country like United States, a cesspool for agents and spies from all over the world, decided to introduce budget cuts in the name of “bureaucratic reorganisations in the government”.

Mycroft rubs his forehead, and then his eyes. Apparently, the talks hadn’t gone as well as he had thought.

April 1914 is certainly not a good month for Mycroft.

Why would the cargo go over to Boston in the first place?

 

* * *

 

 

Boston, Massachusetts. Friday, 10th April 1914, 4:33 pm

 

“Whisky?”

“Yeah sure!”

Von Bork smiles politely and pours the drink to his guest, an eccentric, long-haired, unsuspecting Beta of about forty, his Latin Quarter Bohemian attire dripping with _nouveau riche_ , new money. The “Sausage King of Mexico”.

“Here,” Von Bork hands him the drink, “Cheers to Mexico.”

De Kay smiles enthusiastically, an impish smile well meant, “Cheers to Mexico.”

Both men drink, with Von Bork observing De Kay out of the corner of his eye. The Beta, with no proper sense of attire or behaviour, did not deserve to be called a businessman. Would’ve been a disgrace in France and Germany; he knows how conservative those are. But oh, businessman he was, a tough, even if a small, one. An immensely difficult man to deal with and to convince, with his overwhelming support for the Huertan government, but now it was all well and De Kay had become a domesticated cow. For had he not found Von Bork, he would’ve gone out of business, and reputation.

Somewhere in beginning of 1914, De Kay had managed to secure a huge loan of 30 million francs from the French government, allegedly for resuscitating and then selling his defunct meat business in Mexico with the help of the Huertan government. When news of such a Beta reached Von Bork, he wasted no time, instead travelling straight from Boston to New York, to convince De Kay into investing the amount in his ammunition ventures rather than into the Mexican treasury.

And so, De Kay had agreed to let the shipment from Hamburg to arrive at Boston instead of Tampico, just like Von Bork wanted it to go.

In return for promising a route for the ammunition into Mexico from Boston.

“Although, Mr. Von Bork,” De Kay’s warm smile diffused slowly, “I must really ask you, is it wiser for the cargo to land here in Boston, instead of Tampico directly?”

“The US Navy guards the port of Tampico very heavily, following the several transitions that their government has gone through. And especially after a minor brush-up which happened yesterday.”

De Kay frowns. Of course, one step behind the present, wasn’t he? Von Bork took the duty of enlightening him.

“Yesterday morning, a brush-up took place between the Mexican soldiers and a few American sailors in Tampico, or so it was in the papers. The coast is much heavily guarded now. I wouldn’t take that risk. On the other hand, a land route will be much safer.”

Of course, he had to promise De Kay to deliver the ammo to the Mexican government via land, after receipt of which the government and both he would buy his meat business, at a huge loss. Which, of course wasn’t going to happen. Not after De Kay was dead.

And so, here they were, toasting to the capture of a huge, almost illegally huge, shipment of weapons and ammunition. So much for Bridgeport Projectile Company’s name.

“If you say so, but the Boston Harbour—”

“Is far safer than Tampico. I’ve got some of my friends there; they owe me favours, you see. They’ll see to it,” Von Bork smiles affably, “So, what are your plans in this city today—?”

A sharp knock on the door brings Von Bork to a stop. He frowns, while his guest looked perplexed at the impertinent and persistent knocking.

“Excuse me,” with this, he rises, and opens the door.

A balding Alpha, stern-looking, black overcoat buttoned up greets him with a slight smile, couple more men, one Beta and another Alpha in tow. Von Bork doesn’t know him, but he takes a wild guess, judging by the way he knocked.

“Detective Kincaid, Boston Metropolitan Police,” the policeman shows his ID, “Could you open the door, please?”

And his guess is right.

Von Bork puts on his best greeting smile, “Evening, detective. How may I help you?”

Kincaid strides in rudely and stops short upon seeing an eccentrically dressed De Kay. Frowning, he turns to Von Bork, who smiles uneasily.

“Is it very important, detective? I’ve got a guest over.”

“Oh, we won’t be long. We have information and eye witnesses saying that Colonel Sebastian Moran, a fugitive from justice and a wanted criminal, was last seen in this building, and we believe that someone here has been harbouring him.”

 _Oh, he’d kill the eyewitness_ , “Surely if I had spotted him—”

“So, we’d like to search your place, just in case.”

Von Bork steals an uneasy glance at De Kay. Not a very nice evening, was it? “Will that be necessary?”

The detective gives him a searching look, and then pulls out something from his coat, “We have a search warrant.”

Von Bork slouches. It’s not as if there was any trace of Moran in the flat, “Then by all means, go ahead. And please do be quick about it. I have a guest over, for God’s sake, and I don’t want it to spoil the rest of my evening.”

“Very good, sir.”

 

~~~

 

After the search has ended, leaving the well-ordered apartment in a mess much to Von Bork’s annoyance, the detective apologises for the intrusion and wishes them a good evening. De Kay looks sort of shaken, as if he was the one harbouring Moran. Von Bork leads them out for good riddance, but just then, the detective turns around, and whispers, “You seem very familiar to me, sir.”

Von Bork smiles, “That’s funny because you don’t seem familiar to you at all.”

“No, no,” the detective laughs uneasily, “I have an idea who you might be, but I might not be right. I just wanted to ask—”

Von Bork raises an eyebrow. He isn’t that popular, was he? “Thank you for spoiling my evening, detective.”

“I just wanted to ask, are you that land-reform senator? You see, my daughter is very interested in political sci—”

“Good evening, detective.” And with that, Von Bork slams the door on his face. Turns, and sighs in relief. De Kay hasn’t heard a word of their final exchange.

Cover not blown. Almost.

 

* * *

 

  

State, War and Navy Building. Washington DC. Saturday, 11th April 1914, 11:30 am

 

The advantage of being the head of the Office of Naval Intelligence is that you don’t go to the President of the United States, the President comes to you.

Although Mycroft would’ve loved to visit the White House, even if for the umpteenth time.

Seated in his office, sorting through telegrams and news articles with Andrea, all Mycroft does is sort and organise information and draft more and more PFAs for the BOI and the other espionage agents to execute. He has three agendas on his list, for the President himself to hear: budget cuts, the Anti-Espionage bill being introduced in the Congress, and the finally most important one: to decide the course of _SS Ypiranga_ cruising through the waters of the Atlantic as he waits.

Of course, the easiest way is to prevent the ship from docking at Boston and confiscate the arms, but Mycroft has a better plan. Where he can hit two birds with one stone.

 

~~~

 

Leading an impressed President Wilson out of the office after their little clandestine meeting, Mycroft returns back to his desk, putting his PFAs in official envelopes for the US Navy to seize the port of Veracruz, the customs office as soon as _SS Ypiranga_ docks.

In the meeting Mycroft expressed his alarm at the attempts of the Wilson administration to throttle the intelligence gathering activities of the United States, stating that it was a necessity in times like this.

To further illustrate his point, he revealed his information of the _SS Ypiranga_ on its way to Boston Harbour with its illegal cargo of arms, in which President Wilson seemed explicitly interested. Mycroft informed him that he had two agents aboard the ship as a crew, and then outlined his plan. The arms, as Mycroft had found out, were a delivery meant for the Mexican dictator Huerta and would make a stop at Boston, after which they were supposed to be smuggled into Mexico by land.

“But we can’t have that,” Wilson had said gravely, “There’s an embargo on arms from United States to Mexico, and I have implored all heads of state to do the same. Then where—?”

“Exactly my point, Mr. President,” Mycroft had interrupted, “The source of origin seems to be an American citizen called De Kay who has several businesses in Mexico, including a meat packing business.”

“Well then, apprehend him! Find out why and how else he has been supporting Huerta’s illegitimate regime—”

“That is one option, sir,” Mycroft had interrupted again. The fact that he was the only man in the country who could interrupt the President stroked Mycroft’s ego in ways that the ordinary human could not even comprehend.

Woodrow Wilson had looked him in the eye, carefully, calculatingly, “And what’s the other?”

Mycroft, keeping the eye contact, had leaned backwards on his chair comfortably, “We let the ship dock. But not in Boston.”

“Then where?”

“Directly in Veracruz.”

Wilson had stared at him as if he were an acrobat in the circus hanging by his balls, “What?”

“So that we can avoid the smuggling via land,” Mycroft had added.

Woodrow Wilson had then taken a deep breath, “I’m not getting something here, Mycroft. The problem is Huerta receiving the arms, just like you said. Then why would you—?”

“I understand, sir,” Mycroft had folded his arms and leaned forward, “that the Navy can be readied for an invasion within a week?”

“The Congress will certainly take longer than that, to approve of any armed invasion.”

“I have calculated the time, sir. If _SS Ypiranga_ were to dock in Veracruz on the 21 st of April—?”

“That will be ample time, Mycroft. But what do you plan to do with it?”

Mycroft had then smirked, “I plan to have our Navy confiscate the arms aboard the ship, storm the port, occupy it on the grounds of illegally skirting the arms embargo on Mexico and weaken the Huerta government. Withdrawal of troops on just one condition: General Huerta’s surrender of office to a new, democratic regime. Rest is, as they say, history.”

Wilson had remained silent, contemplative, and then said in a serious tone, “Are you suggesting a war against Mexico?”

Mycroft had seen the change in Wilson’s expression as soon as he had uttered ‘democracy’. He was more than half-willing.

“On a small scale; yes. We need to give the international community a valid reason for ordering this invasion, that is, import of weapons despite the embargo.”

“But a war, nonetheless?”

“Yes, Mr. President. A war.”

 

~~~

 

It’s almost 5 pm when a sudden knock on the door startles Mycroft from his reverie, “Come in.”

The short, unintimidating figure of Pattinson, Mycroft’s only friend in BOI strides in, not as merry as usual. Mycroft can see that he had been returning home, but had left his journey midway to come to the Main Street. Something important then, especially at that hour. Being in good mood throughout the day, Mycroft gives him the good fortune of a polite smile, and then returns back to the writing work he’d been engaged in before he started to daydream.

 “Something important for me?”

“How do you—?”

“Never mind that. What is so important that you had to come all the way at this hour?”

Pattinson bites on his lower lip, his face a cross of anxiety and smugness, “You asked me to keep a watch for an appearance on your brother, sir?”

Mycroft gulps, breath stuck in his throat. He hadn’t been expecting this, not now, and not from someone who isn’t John, “He left America. Didn’t he?”

Pattinson looks perplexed, “How did you—?”

“I asked you to keep a watch on the borders, obviously,” Mycroft sighs.

Pattinson heaves a tired sigh, “I don’t have to tell you anything, do I?”

Mycroft sends him a look that reads _you don’t talk to me like that_. Pattinson’s face goes white at that.

“Get on with it. Where did he leave for? England?” _That foolish boy_.

“Um, not England, I’m afraid, sir. He left for Mexico. He was last spotted at the New York Harbour aboard the _SS Guantanamo_ set sail for Veracruz.”

A thunderclap sounds somewhere far away. Andrea steals a glance at a horror-stricken Mycroft.

“Veracruz, you say?”

“Yes ma’am. I can guarantee the accuracy.”

Silence now rings in Mycroft’s head. He’d just . . . he’d just. . . no—

Finally, he manages to speak, “Why—why. . . only Veracruz. . . In the whole world, why only Mexico? And. . . in the whole bloody country—WHY ONLY VERACRUZ?!”

Andrea and Pattinson look at him, at his outburst with black terror striking their hearts, “W-with all due respect, s-sir, Europe would’ve b-been a much worse choice, given-given—with all that scruffle in the Balkans.”

Mycroft gives him the look, calming down in an instant, his fingers tapping uncontrollably on the desk, “Track his arrival for me, would you? And one more thing.”

“Sure, sir?”

“Was he all alone?”

“Um, no, sir. He was seen in the company of an Alpha and . . . well. . .”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow, “ _And_?”

Pattinson doesn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes, “And . . . an infant, sir. Boy or girl, it was hard to tell.”

Mycroft swallows the dread rising in his gut. And the horror. And the anger. And the feeling of betrayal, “Get me the description of that Alpha. As soon as possible. And have them followed in Veracruz, wherever they go. That will be all.”

“Y-y-yes sir.”

With that Pattinson dashes out of his office as fast as possible. Andrea, too, flees out of the office, leaving Mycroft behind alone. Angry, foolish, dreading, loathing.

A monster. That’s what he is, isn’t he?

 

He hadn’t just put his little brother right in the middle of a war, had he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, John is coming in the next chapter, promise. In fact he was supposed to come in this one. But it got too long (it's 9k+ words long) :( Sorry.
> 
> I dunno if the old readers are still reading this, or are still subscribed to this. If you are, thanks so much for still following and reading through this story even after almost 2 years (It's been 2 years since I first published this, oh how time flies). Life's so damn busy and writing takes so much time away. I took a week away from Uni and studies and MUNs to complete this chapter. But I'm glad I did.
> 
> Although one good thing did happen. I did give you the real identity of Von Bork *evil smirk*
> 
> And now comes the most favourite part of the chapter, History notes (and misc)!! :p
> 
> 1) BOI stands for Bureau of Investigation, the 1914 version of Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI). FBI began as an extension of US DOJ (Dept. of Justice) under the name of BOI; became FBI in 1935.
> 
> 2) Second Afghan War - yes, the same one that John is supposed to have fought in the ACD canon (not here though)
> 
> 3) SS Ypiranga was a real ship which had carried arms from Odessa, Russia to Veracruz, Mexico via Hamburg, Germany for General Huerta, the dictator of Mexico from 1913-1914. The Wilson government did not recognise Huerta as the head of the government as he had taken office by a military coup. US had already had weakened the Mexican government by imposing an arms embargo on the country to support the rebels (somewhat like what's happening in Syria today) and planning to oust the dictator. President Wilson chose to use the docking of SS Ypiranga as an opportunity to do precisely that.  
> So, after SS Ypiranga docked, the US Navy stormed Veracruz, turning the whole city into a war zone. So yeah, effectively, Mycroft put Sherlock in the middle of a war.
> 
> 4) John Wesley De Kay: Much of his bio in the story is true, including his support for Huerta and his meat business. Of course, he hadn't met with Von Bork, and of course in history, the ship hadn't planned to dock in Boston. Forgive me for playing with history, it's one of my hobbies^_^
> 
> 5) Woodrow Wilson was the President of United States at this point. An extremely capable leader and a staunch advocate of democracy, he had ordered the invasion of Veracruz following the Tampico affair (in the next point) to intervene in the ongoing Mexican civil war and to oust the illegitimate Huertan governement.
> 
> PFAs- Plan For Action
> 
> 6) Brush-up in Tampico was also a real incident on the 9th April 1914 which basically led the way to US occupation of Veracruz on 21st April and the downfall of Huertan regime. Not gonna write anymore, it's already getting too long.
> 
> 7) Scruffle in Balkans - refers to the First and the Second Balkan Wars. Ok, I'll write no more ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! x


	29. Hunter & Hunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not saying a word.

_The Buffalo_. Chicago. Saturday. April 11 th, 1914. 10:04 pm

 

“Food.”

John’s crusted eyes fly open at that voice. Feels energy suffusing into him in unexpectedly amounts. Suddenly, the lights are on, and John’s eyes, still accustomed to darkness, close shut almost immediately. Then, for the first time, he sees how bloody and naked his body has been for the past few hours. Grabbing a torn piece of cloth nearby, he dabs on it to stop the bleeding from the broken skin in his back. The pain had been so intense the first time the whip had kissed his skin, localised, burning searing pain that would not travel elsewhere. But now, it’s become a habit, a welcome habit. The ritual takes place every day: whipping, dabbing, cutting, feeding, inserting, but John isn’t going to yield. How can he, when there’s nothing to yield to?

_Kick for the surface . . . and keep kicking. . ._

A small tendril of life travels from his spine to his head, to his hand and legs, to lungs that are too tired to breathe. And he takes a lungful of oxygen and it hurts, but he doesn’t really mind it.

For it’s been five days since Mary had visited him last.

“Where . . . have you b-been?” John croaks, lifting his chest off the floor to try and sit up straight. Mary puts the food on the floor immediately, and rushes to support him. Every new movement begets a fresh, sharp dose of pain under his skin. It’s then that he remembers, again, that he’s as naked as the day he was born, but he doesn’t even have the energy to even flush in embarrassment.

“Nowhere.” she whispers, “Tess hasn’t been taking proper care of you.”

Two weeks ago, Mary, as John’s nurse, had been replaced by a young girl called Tess, who, upon seeing a freshly whipped John, had lost both her nerves and her consciousness. But Mary had continued to visit him secretly with extra food and company under her bosses’ noses. And John would know if she was coming. The loose floorboard would creak differently. The rats would scurry away as if they were even more afraid of her than any other person, even the Underboss.

John finds that odd, and funny.

“She faints . . .” he gasps at the pain in his rectum, “atleast once . . . each time she sees a wound that wasn’t there before,” he chuckles, and then realises something, “They don’t . . . want you around me for long, do they?”

Mary tuts and presses the cloth around his bicep, avoiding looking between his legs, “Standard procedure. We keep a lot of, let’s say . . . hostages, like you. Breckenridge knows his precautions.”

John feels something very wrong with his . . . and then he realises with horror, in his arse. But he decides to keep mum about it, at least until Mary leaves.

“Good to know I’m not the only one.”

Mary looks at him with stern eyes, with the slightest hint of smile on her lips, “And what about me?”

John frowns, “. . . You?”

Mary looks at him calculatingly, “Yes. Me.”

And then she notices where the blood has been coming from, the blood she had been trying to wipe away. She frowns, and then cuts across the exchange sharply, “Turn!”

John gapes at her, “But I’m nak—“

“I said turn!”

Within a few painful moments, John reels in pain with his arse comically up in the air in front of Mary’s face. John turns so that he can see Mary’s face. She seems disturbed, much more disturbed than he has ever seen her. Tries not to gasp, or show any signs of pain. Whatever it is, Mary is still on their side. On enemy territory.

She had understood.

“No matter what I do,” she speaks calmly, splaying her palms on John’s buttocks, “You will not cry out. You must remain silent. Understood?”

John gulps, and closes his eyes, “Alright.”

“It’ll hurt,” she wipes his arse-hole gently with a newer piece of cloth, “but then it’ll be all fine.”

“What if they find—?”

Mary’s lips press into a thin line of determination, “Let them. There’s no use subjecting you to such torture.”

With that, she thumbs the ring of muscle around his arse, and pushes a thumb inside; spreading it into ease till it swallows her whole finger. John clenches his fist, the pain being even more excruciating than the first time. Mary senses the tension in his muscles and inhales deeply.

“Relax. Or this will take longer. I know it hurts, but just relax, Mr. Apparently-Holmes.”

John feels his knees giving away, “John. My name is John.”

“I know,” she whispers, wiping the blood away, “Now, just relax.”

“You have . . . nails,” John squeaks.

“I’ll be careful.”

With that, he feels his arsehole expanding uncomfortably, and now, with two fingers just in deep enough, Mary searches around, till her finger strikes something foreign, hard and stony. He can hear her gulping.

“Push it outwards, would you? I can’t reach it.”

“How would I—?”

“Peristalsis motion. Just do it. Ignore the hurt and do it.”

Within the last most painful moments, John pushes, and he feels the tightening of Mary’s finger in him, and he knows she’s reached it. Biting on his hand to stop himself from screaming, he gasps. And then suddenly, it is all void . . . Empty. Two thuds to the floor, and somehow, after three days of being filled, the hollowness feels so . . . unnatural.

“You’re all fine. Don’t move,” she orders, “I’ll clean you up.”

“I can do that—”

But before he can finish, Mary pours the brandy over the deep pink would, and breathes sharply. With her breath, the spirit evaporates from his skin, chilling and cold.

“I’ve never,” Mary’s voice is hoarse, too hoarse for a woman, “I never thought they’d come down to . . . to _this_. How long have those . . . _things_ been there?”

John finally collapses, all notion of shame having evaporated in the air like the brandy from the skin. Looks nonchalantly at the two bloody stones lying behind him, those that had been lying _inside_ his behind. Tries not to cringe.

“Three days. Maybe four.”

“Try not to move too much, or move slowly if you can. You’re bleeding a lot in . . . _there_ , and I’m afraid I can’t help you with this.”

John winces, “I’ll be alright.”

“What I mean was, well—” she laughs uncomfortably, “if possible, try not to . . . _excrete_ before you heal.”

John looks at her amusedly, “Of all the things in the world, out of blood, whips, _excretion_ makes you uncomfortable.”

“Well, I never was a big fan of potty humour.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

She grins and hands him the cloth, so that he can cover himself up, “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

John blinks, and tries to sit upright, now without the stones up his arse, “What happened to the bloke before me? Was he let go, or—?”

“I’m afraid not. John. He’s buried in the backyard.”

John blinks, and looks at her, breathing deeply, “Will I go the same way?”

She doesn’t blink back, looks at him stonily, “If you don’t escape, yes.”

John chuckles resignedly, “Do I look like I still can?”

Mary licks her lips, “You are fighting for something, something that is yours. Now that I have told you that the real Mr. Holmes is in Boston, you will not stop. You will leave.”

John’s self-pitying smile vanishes. He looks down at her legs, then whispers, “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“A few minutes ago, you asked me that very question.”

She regards him with a sly smile, “Well, what do you think?”

John crosses his legs. The absurdity of nakedness has left him completely, “I think that you don’t belong here. You should have been somewhere else, but since you are still here . . . you are in deep water. I’ll have to go with _stuck_.”

“Oh? And . . .?”

“You don’t want to go back to where you came from . . . and you don’t want to remain here forever.”

She draws closer, and drops her voice lower than he’s ever heard it, “That all?”

John examines her stonily, listening to the sound of her breathing, unconsciously mimicking it, “I’m not sure you want to hear any more.”

She looks away, smirking, caressing the fingers on her left hand with those on her right, “Tell me more, about what you are pursuing. I’m not sure if I would’ve been able to endure what you have endured.”

“You’ve been very insistent.”

“Forgive my curiosity, John. It is a most innocent one.”

“And what if I don’t want to tell you?”

“Regrettably, one can only ask, not force.”

John leans closer, “Have you ever been in love?”

Mary examines him carefully, lips curved into a smile that is inviting and challenging at the same time, “Once. I thought it was so. But then I realized that I didn’t.”

John frowns, “How so?”

“He betrayed me. I killed him and had no second thoughts.”

“That does sound like you. How long ago?”

“Five years. He was my husband of two years. But,” she bites her lower lip, “it brings us no closer to what I asked.”

John looks deep into her eyes, pale green eyes that hold no emotion, in eternal mystery. He looks down at her clothed form, feeling aware of her, her energy, the magnetic aura of danger around her. The soft lights lend her face a soft irresistible sheen. She looks down at his body, failing not to let her gaze wander down, and down and down . . .

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I . . . want to understand. I want to . . . understand . . . you. That, when an Omega called Sherlock . . . comes into a pub . . . telling the world that his name is John,” she breathes deeply, and John catches a brief whiff of her scent, “. . . and a year later . . . an Alpha comes into the same pub telling the world that his name is Sherlock . . .”

“I did not think through a lot of details . . .” John whispers, “I was too focused.”

“And now?”

John leans in. Up close, her thin lips suddenly look plush, or is it John’s imagination? A finger on his wrist, inner wrist, and then withdraws. John can chase that finger to the ends of the world.

“Now?”

Mary’s eyes are too bright, too bright in the darkness around him, but he can’t look away. She withdraws somewhat, “Yes.”

John leans forward to maintain the gap between them, the gap that must not expand, and more importantly, must not reduce, “I don’t know.”

Mary looks at him as if she’s seen something wonderful, as if he is suddenly the loveliest thing in the world, “I brought food for you. Are you going to eat or not?”

John draws away, not failing to notice her smile, the one at the corner of her lips, waiting to spread across her face, “Of course. I’m famished.”

 

* * *

 

Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday. April 12th, 1914. 7:03 am

 

Black overcoat. Top hat. Grey suit. Briefcase. Moustache visible when he checks for any pursuers over his left shoulder.

Sherlock’s brows crease. Pursuit is often the more boring part of the chase, but not for this one.

Over the course of his hunt, the Beta has given Sherlock a nice sightseeing of the port and the town, of the bank, the Academy. Of course, he is insignificant, but the very fact that he is a rat—and smelling out rats is one of Sherlock’s strong suits—makes this very insignificant man the subject of Sherlock’s chase, for rats always scurry back to their holes, and hole is what Sherlock wants (pun most vehemently not intended).

He left for his chase at 6 am in the morning. Thomas always manages to cry him into wakefulness. Thankfully for Sherlock, their host’s old mother can delightfully manage a bundleful of demanding and screaming rounds. Some nursing and packing moments later (and checking whether the colonel had really left before he had even woken up), Sherlock was ready for his job, despite the distraction over the increase in Thomas’ apparently disturbing behaviour.

For Sherlock knows one thing. No matter his engagements, Sherlock has a bond with his child that he himself cannot completely understand. Whatever it was, Thomas’ cries were usually out of his need for constant, unwavering attention, and demand. Not spontaneous.

The Beta suddenly takes a left into the alley, and Sherlock, slightly distracted over Thomas and his behaviours, almost misses the sharp turn. He increases his pace, in no mood to lose him. However when he just takes the turn into the alley, there’s no Beta in overcoat. It’s a mini-junkyard, water leaking from pipes, dirty; a yellow-eyed cat purrs at him and walks away, uninterested. Before he can blink in confusion, there’s something metallic against his hip, and he stills. Behind his ear, he can smell the filthy breath of the Beta he has been chasing. He tries turning his head slowly, and the barrel of the gun presses deeper into his hip.

He catches one look of the Beta; he’s never seen him up front. A quick movement later, the tables have turned, and Sherlock is the one pressing the gun against the Beta’s thigh. No exchange of pleasantries, simple eye contact with visible signs of struggle evident on each other’s face.

But the Beta is far too strong for Sherlock, and Sherlock gives up, for there’s no point fighting a lost battle. He thinks of Thomas, at home, with that old woman and her wannabe son, and in the proximity of a mercurial Colonel.

“Let me live, will you?” Sherlock whispers.

There’s an undercurrent of sarcasm in the Beta’s laugh, “Certainly.”

 

~~~

 

Barrel against the small of his back, Sherlock and the Beta walk out of the alley pressed chest to back. Sherlock scans the entire street; it’s close to a stinky dump yard. A nun in her late-forties, dressed in her white and grey habit with a basket of fruits rushes in their direction and slips a chit to his captor. Sherlock watches as she rushes away, her hips swaying. His captor hands the chit to Sherlock, and pushes the barrel harder into his flesh.

His voice is raspy, and his accent Spanish, unimportant, “Read it.” Sherlock acquiesces.

“ ’ _South of DelMonte Co. Sky blue_.’ So they give you cars, do they? Nice establishment.”

“Shut up and move. I will deliver you alive if you don’t _provoke_ me.”

Sherlock considers him, “It’s not a bad deal, but I can improve upon it with some additional clauses of my own, if I may.”

The Beta says nothing, and Sherlock takes it as a cue to continue.

“I tell you about yourself and you kill me the moment I’m wrong.”

The Beta starts to laugh hard, and Sherlock closes his eyes. The safety is off and the gun could fire at the slightest mishap.

“I’ll take that as an affirmative. First: you are the younger brother. The elder is an Alpha, and works with the same establishment as you.”

The laughter dies away. No bullet in him yet. Oh, this is fun.

“Second: your brother knows who I am. As a result, he knows _what_ I am, and that’s why he sent you, a Beta, and not any other of his Alpha thugs. After all, delivering an Omega to him is the only time you were useful to him. Delivering an Alpha, on the other hand, well, that’s not within your _strengths_.”

The gun presses harder into his back, almost painful, “I am resisting the impulse to do a clean job of you straightaway.”

They take a turn from the alley and almost into the main street. DelMonte Co. is a departmental store across the street and a sky blue automobile revs up and at the sight of them, “Game over. Get in.”

 

~~~

 

Thankfully, the Beta hadn’t had the sense to knock him unconscious. And so hadn’t his partner, the driver.

Veracruz is a lovely port town, Sherlock discovers on his way to their destination, which is somewhere near the more dilapidated section of the town. Automobiles here are far rarer than in Boston, and children, not much younger than he, point excitedly whenever they see one. Some younger ones even run after it, screaming and giggling with happiness. Black smoke billows into their eyes, telling them to stay away, but who are the children to care about black smoke?

Hands bound behind his back, Sherlock is uncomfortable and sore. Makes no attempt to free himself until it’s the right time.

The car pulls up, and Sherlock groans. Oh, why are the criminal classes so unimaginative? Of course, it had to be a run-down warehouse. It’s always one of these places.

And it’s not like he hasn’t expected to be caught. He’s relied on that.

The door opens and rough hands seize him, as if he needs manhandling at all. The Beta takes out a penknife and cuts through his binds. He is strong, for those ropes were strong too, but he seems to be working with one hand only. Deformed, then. The driver watches Sherlock from afar, curious sidelong glances. Sherlock risks a glance at his own chest and sighs. All fine.

Two Negroes, Alphas, join the party, and the Beta gives him up, with his slight Spanish accent, he whispers, “I’ve checked him . . .”

“Move,” their English is unmistakeably American. They grab Sherlock and check him from top to bottom, only to recover a box of matches from his pocket. Sherlock shrugs casually, and they put it back into his pocket. He scrutinises the area. The car is parked near the building. He smirks.

Perfect.

 

Hands tied behind the chair he’s seated on. Sherlock’s neck and shoulders ache from exertion.

Miguel Gonzalez. The Alpha in front of him is just as Moran had described him. Almost.

Huge, unnecessarily so. Posh, distastefully so. Unclean, irritatingly so. Henchmen, four of them. Bulky, slow, armed, tall, to Sherlock’s disadvantage. Oh, two of them are twins.

The Alpha says something softly to his Beta brother in Spanish, who nods, and walks off. Then he converses with his henchmen, and all of them walk out, shutting the door behind securely. Sherlock smirks. Somewhat in his favour, the odds are. Even though the exits are only one.

Sherlock entertains him for some time, soaking in all the gibberish he’s speaking, telling Sherlock that he’s been watching him for a while, he knows where he’s heading and it’d be best if he stopped now. Or there’d be dire consequences . . .  and Sherlock bears it and bears it until he can bear no longer.

Sherlock leans in and whispers. The Alpha stiffens. He smirks at the predictable reaction.

“So, my dear sir,” Sherlock glances around the room, pretending to be nonchalant while victory courses through his veins like blood, “when shall I be corresponding with your master, Senor Gonzalez?”

Of course he’s not Miguel Gonzalez. Of course it’s not. It’s still a rat, and it has yet to scurry away for its life, to its pied piper.

A deafening blast of noise pierces Sherlock’s ears and that of his Alpha captor, distracting the latter. Sherlock ducks his head as much as he can as cracks appear in the wall, travelling up from ground through the pillars of bricks to the roofs, as if the earth were shattering underneath them. The wood in the chair vibrating against his skin, as if a life caged inside it were screaming for release, and Sherlock rises as much as he can with his hands tied behind him to the chair. The room fills with clouds of dirt and sand, and the light coming in from the only ventilator obstructed by the thick dust. It’s indeed a miracle that the warehouse did not collapse.

He smiles to himself, his plans having worked wonderfully.

“What was that?” the Alpha has lost his cool, and for the first time, his façade comes unravelling like loose fabric.

“An explosion,” Sherlock coughs and covers his nose in his shoulder, “in the car that your Beta brother brought me in. They’re all dead, even the henchmen twin at the door, hence the silence outside. Going at the rate of dirt entering this room, we’ll be choked to death in the next two minutes, not to mention the very valid possibility that the building might collapse upon us.”

The Alpha responds by glancing at his surroundings in dismay, and then rushes shamelessly to the door, turning the handle lever repeatedly without any success. Sherlock lets out a low laugh.

“Unlike you, I am a talented lock picker, and we can make a deal.”

The Alpha turns to him, “What?”

“Your brethren locked the door from the outside, and now they’re all dead. You cannot flee unless you let me help.”

Hands are around Sherlock’s throat, thumb pads pressing, choking, bruising, “What’s to say I kill you now? For all I know, they’re not dead at all.”

Sherlock chuckles, “Oh yes, of course. Let’s wait it out until the dust suffocates you. I hadn’t thought of that at all! Free me, and you’ll have a chance of escape.”

Sherlock can almost imagine the rusty gears creaking in the rat’s head as his hands leave him. Oh how could anyone be so stupid to take so much time for something so obvious?

But then, the man has a most unexpected reaction. He grabs Sherlock’s collar and punches him, almost breaking his nose and disorienting him, “You killed my brother! You villainous—”

 _Now’s not the time_ , “If you’d called him in before, things would’ve turned—”

“—whore!”

Sherlock’s insides crawl up at that word, at how it’s identified. It usually precedes the most horrifying experience he had ever had. Oh no, not again—

“Senor, you can get out of here and you can take him to a doctor,” Sherlock’s rising panic smothers him, “I assure you, you and your brother are not what I sought for. Let me get you out of here, and you can still save him. I left the bomb in the car but he might not have been in its proximity when—”

“Shut up!”

“There’s still time!”

A moment of decision flashes on the Alpha’s face, and the next instant, Sherlock’s bounds come undone, slowly. Those ropes are as thick as snakes, bruising in their bounds. But the Alpha needs to work faster. The room’s filling in with dirt the more every minute, at the Alpha coughs and rubs his eyes as he works. Sherlock feels despair looming; he won’t be able to unlock the door in time, at least not before he passes out with the dwindling oxygen supply, or they are both crushed under the enormous weight of the teetering and very old warehouse.

Sherlock’s hands come free.

The air around him is opaque.

 

* * *

 

Washington DC. Sunday, 12th April 1914, 7:53 am

 

They had the description of the Alpha with Sherlock.

Mycroft’s head resting on his palms, collars and cuffs still unbuttoned, tie near his morning tea and the morning daily. Thinning hair askew, reddening. The instant he received the message, he had locked himself inside. Staring out the window listlessly. He can hear anxious footsteps outside his door. He should’ve left for office, but . . .

_Oh brother, what’s become of us?_

He regrets sending John down the Devil’s hole. He regrets ever letting go of Sherlock. He regrets being ambitious and even suggesting a war in the first place. To think that Sherlock would be so stupid, to go along and fraternize with such a dangerous enemy as Colonel Moran.

He sips his tea quietly. He must go to his office. He must take steps.

Sherlock, his Omega brother, has a child out of wedlock. Has Colonel Moran’s bastard child. He had overestimated Sherlock’s devotion to his Alpha. And now he can’t get Sherlock back from the clutches of that dangerous man. For if they know about Sherlock, they know about him. They know that he _exists._

No, he won’t play into their hands. He won’t bother about dealing with an insignificant man like Colonel Moran and possibly endanger Sherlock’s life. He will wait and watch. He will keep his cards close to his chest.

His eyes linger over the Wanted! notice in the morning daily. By the New York Police Department. Of the arrest of one Sebastian Augustus Moran. A man of considerable merits. Perhaps he should keep an eye out, to see who the man behind him is.

Let the man roam around freely for some more time. Rats come back. They always do.

 

* * *

 

Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday, 12th April 1914, 7:55 am

 

Sherlock stumbles out of the stuffy cellar in the warehouse, his breath filing with fresh air around him as he collapses to the ground. Breathing’s never been less boring.

A severed leg is the first in his field of vision, followed by what looked like an open shoulder. Blood and guts everywhere. Like a battlefield blown apart.

Oh, they got out almost in time. He can see Thomas again. He could.

A kick to Sherlock’s side, and he doubles up in pain, curling into himself, all breath that was regained was knocked out once more. Despite personal safety issues, Sherlock feels jubilant. His plans have worked. Almost everyone was dead, and a scared rat always ran to safety.

The Alpha limps past him, looking for his Beta brother, looking into every lifeless, bloody face, at every splintered body part. Throwing a hateful look at a crawling Sherlock, he cries out for his brother, only to be answered back by a voice in obvious pain, by a Beta who was supposedly the closest to the explosion and had yet survived.

Lifting himself off the ground, Sherlock wipes off the blood from his almost-broken nose and rushes forward. The first part of the plan was done. Now for the second, harder one.

The Alpha impersonating Miguel Gonzalez runs, and collapses to the ground as a couple of more unstable bricks fall apart from the system, narrowly missing. Sherlock hides in the only corner that seems safe, watching the scene, brushing the dust and pebbles off his clothes. The Beta brother is still alive, breathing, ever so slowly. He could die at any moment. This was a complication Sherlock had not anticipated. Of course, sentiment. He needs his rat to rush to his boss, not the hospital to save his brother.

Behind that corner, a dark dusty corner of refuge, he watches the scene unfold. The Alpha’s leg is hurting, he knows. Huge man like him, can’t bear the weight of his brother with that injured leg. But the tenderness in his eyes, it’s something Sherlock’s not expected to witness. And oh, the transformation from that seemingly wicked and cruel man to this empathetic brother is certainly enlightening. Sherlock watches in rapt attention, the dynamics between the two brothers, the snarls, the disdainful glares, as the Alpha picks up his dying brother despite the obvious resentment between them. It reminds him, of himself and . . .

He pushes his thoughts down. He has a mission to complete.

People are starting to trickle down the street, perhaps attracted by the bang of the explosion. Sherlock ducks out of the building, watching their direction, even though it is practically useless as they were probably going to a hospital. They are asking around to people, for assistance, for vehicle, looking behind their shoulder for him, perhaps. Sherlock sighs. He’d have to track them to the hospital, and then keep a watch, but he doesn’t have enough time for that—

Just then, his prayers are answered. Another automobile, black, glossy, expensive, comes driving in, rushing, tires screeching, exhaust burning black and sooty. Stops near the brothers as Sherlock watches in jubilation, at the license plate, and the Alpha pushes his brother inside, followed by squeezing his Herculean figure into it. The car bounces off an undulation on the road, and Sherlock finally finds something productive to do. He runs, runs, finds a parked bicycle, breaks open the lock and rides it until he can see his target at a safe distance.

Now for the chase.

 

* * *

 

Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday, 12th April 1914, 8:31 am

 

“Eso es todo el pago que recibirá por el momento. Resto será pagado a usted _después de_ que el trabajo está terminado. Y recuerda, el niño debe llegar a ningún daño. Debe ser sano y feliz cuando llega a mi agente. Aquí está el sobre. Encontrará otros datos y documentación necesarios aquí.”

 _That’s all the payment you will receive for now. Rest will be paid to you after the job is finished. And remember, the child must come to no harm. It must be healthy and happy when it reaches my agent. Here’s the envelope. You’ll find other necessary details and documentation here_.

Colonel Moran prided himself on his Spanish since his Oxford days. But back then, he had not thought that this is where he’d have to employ his fluency in the language.

Thomas had initially been a tricky bet, when he and Von Bork had hatched their plans. They couldn’t stage a kidnapping; it would lead Sherlock to abandon everything else and search for the child, and that is the last thing they need: a desperate mother. Staging a murder, however, would break Sherlock, but would at least not divert his energies.

But he needs Thomas alive. Even if he were to procure the dead body of a similar-looking blond baby, Sherlock would know. Sometimes Moran hates Sherlock’s cleverness.

Oh, it would’ve been better if he had not listened to his conscience and just got that bastard child murdered like Von Bork had told him to do.

And then he had found out, among some of his lost contacts, about a Mexican boy who owed him a favour. Irepani. And now, he is his host. And his soon-to-be accomplice. And his old, frail mother.

And when Moran saw her fondness for Sherlock’s child, and dislike sparking between the two mothers, the plan came into clarity.

Their hostess would have to be the one to stage the murder. While he was away on business in Tijuana, of course.

“Ahora dime lo que va a hacer.” _Now tell me what you will do._

“En la noche del 19, me deslizo en la habitación en la esquina noroeste de la primera planta de la casa. Es decir, cuando el niño toma su siesta.” _On the evening of 19 th, I slip into the room in the northwest corner of the first floor of the house. That is when the child takes his nap._

“¿Entonces?” _Then?_

“No habrá nadie en la casa _._ Yo le roban,” at this point, even the boy looks uncertain and doubtful, “y voy a salir al patio trasero.” _There will be no one in the house. I will steal him and I’ll go out the backyard_.

“Véase, muy fácil. ¿Entonces?” _See, very easy. Then?_

“Me quedo con el bebé, y la comida te dejaré con el meta del mesón de vuelta de la esquina.” _I’ll take the baby, and the food you’ll leave with the keeper of the inn._

“Muy bien. La dirección de la posada se encuentra en el sobre.” _Very good. The address of the inn is in the envelope._

“A continuación, voy a viajar a Texas City, donde su agente se reunirá mí.” _Then I’ll travel to Texas City where your agent will meet me._

“Usted sabe qué hacer después de eso. Muy bien. No voy a estar en la ciudad hasta el 21 de este mes. Asegúrese de hacer su trabajo correctamente.” _You know what to do after that. Very well. I will not be in town till the 21 st of this month. Make sure you do your job properly._

“Sí señor.” _Yes, sir_.

“Bueno.” _Good_.

And now, he’ll have to pay their hostess, Sesasi, a nice visit. She’s the main link in the chain after all.

 

* * *

 

Off the Veracruz port, Mexico. Sunday, 12th April 1914, 9:02 am

 

If not for the _Cassandra,_ his lovely yacht with the tigerskin of some beast from India, and the absence of a brig for his prisoners, Miguel Gonzalez would’ve surely been a pirate. And a famous one at that.

But alas, he remains one of the most unknown names in the Western world. A steep price to pay for lousy businesses that only gave him cheap things like _money_.

For weeks, he’s watched in dismay as the port that once bustled with trade and commerce and _Mexicans_ filled with bloody English-speaking, white-skinned, thrice-damned pompous cunts called the Americans. They say patriotism is the death of a businessman. For Miguel, patriotism is the reason he’s become the Alpha he is.

He goes inside the yacht, back to his guests sitting around the table, discussing terms in hushed tones. One or two of them can be counted upon, he muses. Rest will have to be dumped into the sea. . .

Later. He hasn’t slept the night. They will all have to go away.

“Muchas gracias a todos por su tiempo.” Loosening his tie, he says abruptly, causing everyone to turn up and look at him, startled, “Eso sería todo. Para hoy.” _Thank you all very much for your time. That’ll be all. For today._

Watching his guests, people who wanted to squeeze Mexico and its people dry, leave is mercy, he muses. Goes back to his parlour, alone, makes himself a drink. Sighs. His boys haven’t returned yet. He’d sent them out to draw out Von Bork’s men, or rather, an Alpha going by the name of Claude Stoughton. Bloody motherfucking Americans.

But his boys had smelled out an Omega. Apparently, Claude had his Bonded brought along. And Miguel had tried to recall how long it had been since he had last had a Bonded Omega in his bed. He did not remember, but he knew it had been a long time.

Omega or not, Von Bork surrounds himself with clever, able people. Miguel knows that he’ll have to be careful. He had put the last shipment of arms and gunpowder to better use than what Von Bork had told him to do. He’d given them to Huerta’s army. Huerta was the last hope of a strong and free Mexico, a Mexico free from the bullying of Wilson. And arms were better used than destroyed.

So he’d taken refuge here, 2 miles off the coast of Veracruz without his bodyguards, where no one apart from his invitees can touch him. He wouldn’t have hidden from any American shithead, or any other shithead for that matter. But he’d got the measure of Von Bork long ago. Neither was he American, nor a shithead. Sometimes it was better not to tackle problems head-on.

Deep in contemplation, he did not hear the creak in the wooden board in the yacht deck. A window bangs against the sill, and Miguel turns to see water on the floor. Before he can react, there’s a knife against his throat, and wetness against his back. He knows better than to protest. The sweet smell of an Omega behind him as a deep voice whispers in his ear, “¿Te impresiona ahora?” _Are you impressed now?_

Miguel smirks, keeping his hands where the Omega can see them. Outsmarting his men and swimming all the way to his yacht? Not yet, “Muéstreme su concha, y tal vez lo estaré.” _Show me your cunt, and maybe I will be._

The Omega laughs behind him, “Por suerte para ti, estoy siempre caliente después de matar a alguien.” _Luckily for you, I am always horny after I kill someone._

Miguel laughs, his hand trying to reach for the Omega’s body, his legs. Oh, he’s a bony little bird, Claude Stoughton, or whatever his real name may be, doesn’t take care of the poor thing. The knife presses harder, cutting into his skin a bit. Oh, the bird can kill. He’s heard of Omega assassins, but this one isn’t one. This one serves himself.

“Cuanto más se mueve la mano, más difícil Voy a pulso el cuchillo,” the Omega whispers. _The more you move your hand, the harder I'll press the knife._

Miguel chuckles, “¿Cuál es la vida en comparación con el coño de una pequeña cosa dulce como usted? ¿Cuál es tu nombre, querida?” _What's life compared to the cunt of a sweet little thing like you? What is your name, dear?_

“Sherlock Holmes.” The voice is confident and like iron. Miguel is more than sure that the Omega is giving him his real name.

“Ah, British. I knew.” Miguel looks at him, making no attempt to mask his accent like other stupid chameleon bosses around Mexico, “Let me see your face, Sherlock Holmes.”

He can feel the Omega called Sherlock turning around, and then revolving the chair around to face a mirror. Miguel stares in wonder at his young, smooth, pale face. Sherlock Holmes is probably the most beautiful Omega he’s seen in his lifetime. What’s an Omega so beautiful and pure doing in a desolate world like this?

He removes his hand from his thigh.

“What do you want from me, Omega? Has Von Bork sent you to kill me?”

Sherlock chuckles, pulling out a coil of rope, “You’re an idiot if you really think that.”

“Careful, now. I like you. Does not mean you can say anything you like.”

“Well,” Sherlock seems amused, “it’s not like you have any other choice but to listen.”

 

~~~

 

When Sherlock’s tied Miguel securely to a chair, just because he wanted to do it, he goes out, takes control of the sails and the wheel and the anchor, and sails the boat away, to a direction more to his liking. Away from land.

When the yacht is safely anchored off the shore of an island about five miles from the port, Sherlock returns to the captive Alpha. Over six feet in height and with rippling muscles, Miguel Gonzalez could have easily overcome him. But he didn’t. He can see that, although Miguel finds him attractive, he feels no attraction towards him. He does not know what came over him—maybe a stroke of recklessness that Mycroft often said he was born with—that he gave Miguel his real name, but in those few precious seconds he knew one thing—Miguel had no reason to hurt him, or to come after him. Whether he likes it or not, he’s only a pawn in the “grand scheme” of things.

“So, Sherlock Holmes,” Miguel exclaims in heavily accented English, his intelligent eyes twinkling, “I have done like you desire. I have sit in this place silently while you tie me in your heavy ropes. Do ropes excite you?”

Sherlock chuckles, “You probably don’t want to know what excites me.”

“Why?” he observes amusedly, emphasizing on every single word slowly, “Because you are a dangerous Omega?”

“No, because I’m an Omega who knows more things about you than the entire world combined.”

Miguel narrows his eyes, “You sure?”

Sherlock tuts, “You are a patriotic man. Odd, for a criminal.”

“If I am a criminal, then what are you?”

Sherlock ignores that, “Over the mantelpiece, there’s the Mexican flag, and a picture of you and the dictator. So, that part is obvious.”

Miguel smiles, “What else?”

“You move slower to your right. You have tea in the morning. Not very Mexican, that, is it?”

“A man has tastes. What else?”

“There’s a reason you’re here. You’re in hiding. From Von Bork. Why? He’s just a businessman.”

He looks him square in the eye, “I did not know that. Tell me more.”

This wasn’t going to be easy, Sherlock muses. Takes a chair, and sits down. “I know about your sister. Her American husband.”

Miguel laughs, “Some trash you pick up from newspaper. Speaking of newspapers, I heard a similar story about you. And your brother.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Oh yes, that.”

“A symbol for the suffragettes, I hear.”

“That was me, not my brother.”

“And there was another one. About a beautiful, blond baby with eyes like sapphires.”

It’s harder for Sherlock to maintain his complexion. Miguel heaves a tired sigh.

“So let us not joust around like your forefathers did, Omega. It matters no more what we know of each other. I know what you want of me, and I know what you want.”

 

* * *

 

Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday. April 12th, 1914. 2:15 pm

 

It’s late afternoon by the time Sherlock returns to his guest house, to his child. Miguel was a rare specimen of Alpha: extremely intelligent and perceptive, which is more than Sherlock can say for either Von Bork or Moran or any other stinking Alpha he’s ever met. Even though they had known each other for less than fifteen minutes, Miguel seemed to understand that even though Sherlock was under orders, he was no agent of Von Bork. He served himself.

Miguel hadn’t told him all, but he’d told him enough to draw conclusions about the rest. Sometimes he loves being an Omega. People always underestimate Omegas.

So he knows what Miguel did. Well, he had an idea beforehand, but the thrill of proving himself right was better than the thrill of simply knowing that he was right. Miguel Gonzalez is no ordinary businessman. He runs a network of underground agents across the various anarchist secret societies in Europe. And then he’d told Sherlock that he knew he had been part of one. But it wasn’t enough. The information he can leverage to Von Bork against the freedom of himself and his child.

Then Miguel had told him something priceless. A cargo-steamer called _SS Ypiranga_ was scheduled to dock at Boston on 16th of April, meant to deliver arms and ammunition to Huerta by skirting the arms embargo, a deal that Miguel, out of his staunch support for Huerta, had helped broker. However, he had been approached by a better offer, an offer that any businessman would have taken without question.

An offer that Miguel did not tell him, for if he went around telling everyone, or even the person who was about to kill him, about the deals he made or was made, he’d not remain a trustworthy businessman.

As it turns out, Sherlock did not need to be told of the deal Miguel was made, for Sebastian Moran told him of it, in his own, indirect manner.

“The contents of that ship are valuable,” he said, in the midst of penning down a letter he was to post the next day while Sherlock breastfed a hungry Thomas, remembering the threat Miguel gave him. “The ship must reach Boston safely.”

Sherlock’s worked long enough with the colonel to know what he thought of him. The colonel thought of him as a brash little Omega child who had to be manipulated into doing things that they wanted. And Sherlock’s lived long enough with Von Bork to know how he thought. He knows what he regards a victory, and what he thinks of as loss.

The only reason Moran would enlighten him about the paramount importance of the vessel means only one thing. Moran wants Sherlock to _not_ let it reach safely, or at all.

Sherlock’s thought of it from Von Bork’s perspective. Which would profit him more: safe delivery of arms to a doomed Huerta regime and helping a small country like Mexico, or no delivery of the huge shipment of illegal arms and thereby causing a profitable long-term supply-and-demand? The answer was obvious, and concurred with the results Moran wants.

The easiest way to ensure that the ship doesn’t dock is to destroy it before it docked.

And that’s when it hits Sherlock. How would Von Bork recuperate the losses from the destruction of _SS Ypiranga_ and why would he make such a dangerous bet for a more-or-less uncertain future? They’d obviously file insurance claims. And that’s when Sherlock realizes that if so, then it must mean that Bridgeport Projectile Company, Erik’s ammunition-manufacturing firm, was all a hoax, a façade. A dummy corporation whose sole aim was to create gunpowder shortage in market.

But the problem is that the cargo would be arriving at Boston. Which means that Moran wants Sherlock to leave for Boston, because Moran knows that he won’t leave such an important mission in the hands of a paid agent. And if Sherlock has to leave, make preparations for destroying the steamer, and come back without rousing Moran’s suspicions, he’d have to leave Thomas in the home. And that strikes Sherlock as odd. He’s made his love and commitment to his child clearer than he wished he had. Did they forget that he would never leave Thomas, no matter what?

Thomas gives a mid-feeding whimper, as if reading through his mind.

Sherlock rewinds through what Von Bork and Moran expect him to do: leave for Boston undercover and make preparations to set the ship ablaze, thus serving their ends while making Sherlock think that he had thwarted their plans. Stupid Alphas. He was way cleverer than falling for such petty lies and manipulations.

“When will you be leaving?” Sherlock asks suddenly. There’s trouble on the horizon, and he intends to stay out of it, or rather, to keep Thomas out of it.

Moran stops writing, and turns to look sideways at Sherlock, “After a couple of days, at the earliest. Tensions mounting between the States and Mexico. Not safe for us here.”

Sherlock chuckles, “It’s not safe for us anywhere.”

“True,” he muses. “You did good work today. Better than I expected. I did not expect Gonzalez to be a talker.”

When Thomas is done, Sherlock wipes his mouth gently and buttons his shirt, “Well, like you said. I’m an Omega. So he talked.”

He stands up and picks Thomas up in his arms, setting the boy on the bed, content to watch him playing with his feet and curling himself into a ball in the process. Sherlock tries to unsuccessfully disengage his feet from his mouth, “You’ve just had milk, Thomas.” But the baby gives him a sullen look and continues to play regardless.

“Did he touch you?”

The question catches Sherlock unawares, “I beg your pardon?”

Moran looks at him irritably, “I asked if he touched you.”

“And I heard you the first time. Why would you ask such a stupid question?”

Moran is quiet, and if Sherlock can make anything of that strange look, almost ashamed with himself. Sherlock tries to push him further, “You sound like you have plans to ask Miguel Gonzalez what touching me felt like.”

He shoots him a cold look, followed by an unexpectedly derisive snort, “If I had any wish to know that, I’d have asked Mr. Von Bork myself.”

“If you had the balls to ask him.”

“It’s nice to see you trying so hard to provoke me.”

“And it’s even nicer to see that you think I care enough to spend my efforts _provoking_ you.”

“Enough!” Moran barks, and it’s the first time Sherlock’s defeated him in a verbal spar. The jubilation at that thought is sweeter than honey.

“Of course. You write your letter. I’ll lay Thomas to sleep and be on my way. Would you be so kind as to ask Sesasi to watch over him after I’ve left the house? I know she loves Thomas madly but she’s irritating.”

A grunt from behind Sherlock. He smiles to himself, making his eyes wider when Thomas spots him. It’s lovely to see how excited Thomas becomes when Sherlock makes his face at him. He’s made that face at himself in the mirror, and it was frightening as hell.

Little blue eyes close and Thomas drifts off to his baby-dreams. And just as Sherlock is about to leave the room, Moran calls out, “Sherlock.”

No Mr. Holmes this time. Sherlock stops on his toe, for he knows that this time, it’ll be words without any hidden meanings, “What?”

“Your beauty is a pleasure to behold. Don’t ever spoil it for me.”

  

* * *

 

 _The Buffalo_. Chicago. Sunday. April 12 th, 1914. 1:30 pm

 

For a Sunday afternoon, _Buffalo_ seems to be far too crowded than usual. Lights are dimmer, the laughter is louder and far too raucous for Mary’s liking. Certainly, she did not have a good life in mind when her father couldn’t pay the ranch owners the money he owed them and she was taken away as payment. She had imagined all that her mother had told her to be cautious of would become true. She had, long story short, imagined far, far worse things.

Until the day she stole a horse and was caught by her impressed late husband. God bless his soul.

But now, having to serve chilled beer to loud, uncouth, lecherous Alphas with the supposedly Earl of someplace-she-didn’t-care-about-shire proposing to her and bemoaning about his lost lands and estates and 30-bedroom chateau in his tedious English drawl, she knew all her fanciful imagination of pilfering men had come to a climax. This is certainly worse than the worst things she had imagined.

“Another drink, my Lord?” she enquires in her mock-sweet voice.

“Oh yes, my dear Mary,” the apparently-Earl is a 50-something Alpha with balding head, and a long-pointed nose and bags under his eyes, “your innocence, it is so sweet and pure. It’s pitiful you have to work here with sweaty men and distasteful company in this god-forsaken country.”

 _Speak for yourself_ , “Another coming right up, my lord.”

“I was 20 when my father arranged my first marriage,” he is almost tearful, “Oh, she was beautiful, Agatha was. The sound of her laughter, so sweet. We spent two months away on our honeymoon in absolute ecstasy Cornwall. Oh, that chateau was so beautiful, my precious.”

Mary forces a smile. More chateaus, or chateaux? Oh, why couldn’t he just go away?

“Oh Agatha, I’d tickle her under her arms, and she’d laugh, and I’d go down and, oh, her beautiful pink southern nipple would—“

Mary pushes a drink in front of his face before he can speak any further, “There you go, my Lord. Another drink to cheer you right up.”

Brenda comes up behind her, almost startling her “What did you do now?”

“Selling an old, irritable, horny man drinks, you mean—?”

“No,” her voice almost trembles, and Mary turns to look at Brenda who is white as a sheet, “Why is McCarthy asking around for you?”

Mary casts the Earl a sidelong glance, and leans in, “I’ll be right back, my Lord. Enjoy the evening.”

 

~~~

 

Brenda takes Mary’s hand, and the two women dart past several intoxicated Alphas and Betas with easy smiles. A particularly perverted one pinches Brenda’s arse, but none of them stop. Mary looks around them to make sure no one is watching them. Breckenridge was gone on some town business, and McCarthy wasn’t around.

Only once they are behind a secret, secured door does Brenda heave a sigh of relief. Mary watches her in concern.

“What is it, Brenda?” she whispers, “What did he ask you to do?”

“He asked me to keep an eye on a prisoner,” Brenda gulps, “Mary, what are you up to? Please tell me, I’m your friend.”

Panic seizes Mary, but she doesn’t let it show, “What prisoner? Which one?”

“He—he said, he asked me about what—how I know you. Not just me, but all the others.”

Oh, her sins are catching up with her. So he was going into her history. And what if they come to find out that she was responsible for everything, for delivering the younger Holmes brother to the—

Feigning ignorance, she makes a confused face, “But why would he ask you to watch over a prisoner, I don’t understand—?”

Brenda’s lips tremble, “You aren’t thinking of r-running away, are you?”

Mary looks at her, commiserating. If only she could rescue all the women who worked here. If only.

“You know I can’t. None of us can. But which prisoner, Brenda?”

A pause, mistrust right there, but she says it anyway, “That short blond one. Sherlock Holmes.”

 

* * *

 

Veracruz, Mexico. Tuesday. April 14th, 1914. 3:30 pm

 

When Moran tells Sesasi that he has a job for her son that will pay him very handsomely and enable them to move out of their house into a grander, more lavish one, she sheds tears of joy, taking his hands in hers as she showers her blessings after blessings.

When Moran tells her that in order for her son to get the job, she must do him a small favour, Sesasi is instantly alert. Favours that came with rewards too good to believe in were always to be treated with suspicion. Moran admires her caution, and then tells her what he needs her to do.

“No señor. No voy a hacer esto,” she breaks down when he remains unyielding in his demand, “No puedo hacer esto. Soy una madre. Estoy listo para hacer otra cosa. Pero esto no.” _No, sir. I will not do this. I cannot do this. I am a mother. I am ready to do anything else, but not this._

“Es un pequeño favor que te pido,” he said softly, cooing her, “Para de llorar. Shh, Sesasi. Voy a encender el fuego para usted.” _It is a small favour that I ask of you. Stop crying. Shh, Sesasi. I will light the fire for you if needed._

“Él es su bebé,” she whimpers, terrified eyes darting to Thomas’ sleeping figure on the bed, “Me encanta que los niños como mi propio.” _He is your baby. I love that child like my own_.

Moran chuckles darkly, “Yo estaba hablando de un bebé, no es mi bebé.” _I was talking about a baby, not my baby._

 

Two pillars of his grand plan to get rid of Thomas were erected. And now for the stage.

 

* * *

 

 _The Buffalo_. Chicago. Wednesday. April 15 th, 1914. 9:03 pm

 

“So you’re telling me that poker is not a game of chance?”

John chuckles, “Now you’re insulting the game.” He looks at her fondly, “It is a matter of odds, probabilities. The player with the best hand wins. Short and simple. Another game?”

An evening ago, Mary had brought him a deck of cards she had sneaked from the parlour. And over the course of the next two evenings, over dim light dinners and growing intimacy, John taught Mary how to play hold ‘em poker, or rather a two-player version of it, something he considers himself to be extremely adept at.

“No, let’s stop for now,” she heaves a tired sigh, “If someone comes up to check . . .”

John gives her a sly smile, adjusting to rest his weight on the left half of his bottom, “Oh, so you’re being like that just because you can’t win? No, I completely understand.”

Mary’s eyes narrow challengingly, “Oh, so poker makes you an arse as well. Good to know.”

He laughs, “Just like it makes you insecure.”

“I am not being insecure, John! And anyway, you’ve taken all my money and I have nothing to bet!”

“I can always return it. You’re simply making excuses.”

Mary shakes her head, smiling, “You are insufferable!”

John’s smile fades a bit, remembering the last time someone had called him insufferable . . . on the _Titanic_ . . . an Omega . . . jumping . . . for the largest ship in the world was too small to escape. . .

And here he is, playing poker, life scattered, his will to escape diminishing with every single moment.

He swallows, and gives Mary a forced smile, Mary whose eyes are bright, and all too knowing, “Right. One last game,” he hands her a few pennies, “Now you have something to bet.”

She snatches it away with an impish smile, “I’ll be dealer this time.”

“Oh, that’s fine with me.  I don’t see how you think I’m cheating here. You’re too easy to read.”

“That’s one explanation.”

John narrows his eyes, “And what’s the other?”

She leans in and whispers seductively, “You’re cheating.”

“Oh no, I’m not.”

 

~~~

 

Five minutes later, John has regained almost three-fourth of the total money, and Mary looks at him with helpless indignation. She turns over the three cards, and looks at John, stony-faced. Not a favourable hand, he surmises and steals another look at his own card. The best he can have is a flush. He’ll bet some more, not yet wanting to go all in. Mary’s cards were, after all, just like her. Full of surprises.

But his plans are short-lived as he notices the short-lived disappointment on Mary’s face. Smiling inwardly, he waits for her to check, and then he places a bet, “10.”

He can see the audible gulp in Mary’s throat. She has less than 25, can’t do anything, not even a raise, in the next round except to go all in. She turns the next card. The nine of hearts.

However, she surprises him by smiling, almost invitingly, and throws a 20 on the floor, “Raise.” John looks at her rivetedly. Mary’s not a fool to do something as idiotic as what she’s just done.

“You do realise that you don’t have any more cash to buy in, don’t you?”

“And what if I say that I . . . do?”

John laughs, “Right.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Oh, I do. Because I also believe that you are an idiot.”

The look in her eyes is malevolent, pure evil, as she rests her chin on her knuckles and looks deep into his eyes, “Wait and watch, Mr. Gambler. Wait and watch.”

John sighs and throws a 20, “Right then, call.”

Mary is still watching him intently. Too intently for John to realise that something is wrong. Because Mary isn’t an idiot and yet she believes that she has more money. He remembers a distant poker game, in a pub in Southampton . . . where Sven had bet his third-class _Titanic_ tickets in frenzy.

“How long have you been playing poker, John?”

John smiles, “Long enough to see a ship sink.”

She leans in, interested, “It drowned, didn’t it? How did you make it?”

He looks at her pointedly, “Alive. Your turn.”

“Of course,” she looks at him, as if confident that she would win, and turns over the last card, and then, throws the rest of the money from her pile onto the floor, “40.”

And then, before John can say that she doesn’t have any money left, she renders him speechless by taking off her blouse and setting it down on the floor. John gulps, his mind racing far ahead of the game.

Bugger.

“You can’t do that.” NO, no she can’t. She shouldn’t.

“Oh yes, I can,” not the slightest worried about her modesty, “If two people can play poker without a full time dealer, then I can certainly bend the rules as well. And anyway, it’s high time I started playing by my own.”

“But—” John croaks helplessly, and Mary cuts across him.

“Your turn, John.”

John steals one look at her naked arms, and looks away pointedly.

Her skin is creamy, slightly freckled, like it’s aching to be touched, to be explored, for all sorts of freckles must be there in all the right places, and John’s mind races to every single of them.

“Call.”

“Showdown, then.” She turns over her cards: a two pair. A lower hand.

John licks his lips, and then goes against his own primal judgment, his mind spiralling at the thought that if he shows his cards, then in the next game, Mary, having no cash left, might lose some more, more and more . . .

And if she ever went all in . . . all out . . .

No.

“Fold.”

With half his money, along with Mary’s blouse, returned to her, she smiles triumphantly, “What did you have, if I may ask?”

John waits until she’s worn back her blouse. Then he can think more clearly, “Flush.”

Mary’s jubilant smile fades into an odd look, a look that is cross between surprise and admiration.

“Alright. You are a complicated man. Next game.”

John folds his legs closer, not wanting his hard-on to be noticed through his flimsy clothing, “Isn’t it late—?”

“Not even close. I’m just getting started.”

Upon seeing a reluctant John, she urges him, “Come on, you deal this time. Where’s that eager John? Giving up after just one loss?”

One unfair loss, he thinks, “Alright.”

 

~~~

 

This is bloody ridiculous, John thinks.

All 100 on the table, along with John’s pistol, the one that Mary has smuggled back for him, his bandages, dog tags and Mary’s earrings, blouse and skirt. Not to mention that he can hardly look Mary in the eye now. Her curves are soft, there’s hair in her underarms and her body seems flushed, like she’s . . . pleased to be the way she is now. Her eyes rake his body, and John, already half-naked because of his daily torture ritual, feels like squirming, like an insect in its burrow.

Even if it were without the distraction, the game would’ve been quite difficult now. Within 10 games, Mary has become as good as John at bluffing. John looks at all his limited possessions. He doesn’t even have proper clothes to bet on, unlike Mary.

Although, Mary’s clothes, John reddens at the thought and Mary smirks at his discomfort, are far, far priceless than his bandages, and he’d rather lose his bandages than . . .

“Tell me, John,” she whispers, pitching her voice lower, and John feels as if she is seducing him deliberately, like on the first day, “why do you like to gamble? Raise.”

 John looks at his cards once again, “Same reason you like coming back to me. It’s addictive,” he takes off yet another bandage from a fresh wound and winces as some newly-formed skin tears off with it, “Call.”

“And if I don’t come back tomorrow?”

“Then, your clothes . . .” John speaks hesitantly, “I’m afraid, won’t be yours.”

“That is assuming that you win. If you lose . . .”

He leans forward, “I _will_ win. At any rate, I can stay without my bandages.”

“And if you stay too long without your bandages?” She drops her handkerchief on the floor, “Raise.”

“Too long or too late?”

“Both.”

John blinks, “I don’t mind.”

“And,” Mary thumbs the strap of her brassiere, much to John’s distraction, “what about your daring escape plan?”

She, he notices, squeezes her legs together and bites her cheek. The room is suddenly too sweltering for John. He should escape, oh God, he has to. His member is hard under the loincloth he is wearing, and he knows it is now common knowledge, for Mary has her tell-tale smirk on. The smirk that knows all that should not be known.

“Mind your own business,” he snaps almost rudely, and Mary looks infuriatingly amused at his discomfort, “What about yours?”

“Perhaps, we can . . .” she bites down on her lip, “collaborate.”

John blinks. He hadn’t thought of that. The idea that he can escape, with Mary . . .

“Call.”

John gulps, and then realises his mistake. Mary has no way to do a raise. She has nothing left except. . .

“I’m all in.”

John digs his nails into his right thigh. Bugger. Of all deals that he’s been made in poker, of _RMS Titanic_ tickets, and supplies and cooking duties, this one is the worst.

Mary looks him in the eye as she does it, slowly unhooks her brassiere as John watches in rapt, horrified attention, like a scene unfolding, a scene which shouldn’t have happened. Hooks her thumbs into her underwear, and slowly, the last of the fabric on her body lies atop the pile of her clothes, and Mary, beautiful and confident in her sexuality, sits in front of him like a queen, while he, the helpless, minimally-clothed peasant, can do nothing but stare and want and stare.

“Well?” She smirks, and spreads her legs, just a little bit, and John’s mouth is open and his heart is galloping, afraid, desirous, tempestuous. She draws closer to him and he’s paralysed, all parts of him except one. She touches his thigh, and he jolts into action.

Mary looks at him, and John, who’s only ever felt fascination for breasts during his time as a street artist, and has never really touched them, his eyes go straight for them and they stay there, for they are so beautiful in their imperfection and asymmetry and they call to him . . .

“Say you’re all in,” she breathes almost into his mouth, and John can do nothing but comply.

“I’m all in,” he whispers inaudibly, and Mary’s mouth presses into his just as he utters ‘all’. Bodies pressing together and suddenly John has no loincloth, and John has no wounds, and all he knows is the throbbing, the deep, incessant throbbing in his manhood, and that must cease, and Mary’s arms and legs are around him, and she’s jerking against him, on top of him, and oh, such closeness, how can she be so _close_? And John’s arms envelop her completely and he kisses back, for he’s wanted her so much and she’s teased him long enough about it, and oh, oh, _oh_ , the sweet ecstasy, the warmth of a woman’s supple flesh, and they are _so soft_. And there’s charcoal once again on John’s hands, and the room is noisier and colder. . .

Waves, they break against the walls, as if someone has taken _The Buffalo_ and thrown it into the ocean, the Atlantic Ocean, and oh, it’s the Heat, the Estrus. John looks at his body. He’s younger, slimmer and underneath him is someone far younger and far slimmer. And oh, the skin, Mary’s freckles are gone and the skin is whiter, the white which comes from never having been exposed to the sun. Oh, John can kiss that skin for ages and ages and _ages_. And those hipbones, they are jutting out and John traces out the hip, kissing as he goes down to the legs, and oh, there’s no Mary, for Mary hasn’t arrived yet . . .

“John,” Sherlock closes his eyes, and warmth blossoms in John’s heart, warmth that calms the storm inside. And John wants to see him, and he can see him, but he can’t open his eyes, and _oh mate, my mate, my Bonded_ , and yes, he wants to make him pregnant, and _oh yes,_ he has made him pregnant . . .

_. . . with those titties bouncing on his man-chest . . ._

John’s eyes fly open, and he withdraws his mouth from Mary’s, but it’s too late. Mary looks like someone has shot her in the head, as she jerks against John, rubbing herself against his manhood, and it takes an enormous amount of restrain on John’s part to not penetrate her. Her eyes are closed, her face is flushed, and John feels, among other things, most prominently, disgust. Not at her, but at himself.

“Hurts,” Mary exclaims. John’s grip is bruising, and his eyes are closed, for desire won’t come to him now, just won’t. It should’ve been so sweet and beautiful and liberating, but it’s not; it’s a nightmare and _betrayal and cheating . . ._

“Mary,” he chokes on his saliva, and her lustful eyes steal one glance of his wide, worried ones, and John knows what’s coming next. She isn’t going to stop, not until she gets what she wants, what she’s wanted, what they’ve both wanted.

So John lets her. He’s cheated both her and Sherlock. He’d bear it. After all, this is what they mean when they say that Bonded Alphas are almost incapable of infidelity.

He closes his eyes, but he can’t close his ears to her sighs and exclamations of “John” and “take me” and to John, who is extremely shy about his own sexual desires, it all seems so unusual to have someone who is so outspoken about it all.

And then, just like that, Mary stops. Her breathing is still heavy, and she’s lying on top of him, breasts hanging from her chest, and John hates his instincts which make his eyes go to them, for they are so endlessly fascinating . . .

No. Stop.

“You’re still hard,” she exclaims, and John flushes horribly red upon hearing his state being described so . . . accurately. He looks away, feeling like an utter failure.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” is all he can say, “I’m sorry.”

She pulls away, but makes no attempt to cover herself up, “Time for bed.” John looks at her face. She’s disappointed in him. The terror that her expression strikes in his heart knows no bounds.

“Mary, listen. Listen to me,” he pleads, “please.”

“Gretchen will bring you food tomorrow.”

Her voice is low, and although there’s no explaining left to be done, John has this irrational need to do some. As if saying something will undo all that happened during the evening.

“You’re so beautiful,” he stammers, and then there’s nothing left to say. She looks at him, poker-faced. Oh, why did he teach her this game? Why isn’t she saying anything?

“I’m so sorry, Mary. You,” he gulps, “deserve better than an infidel Alpha like me.”

She is still stony-faced, “And you think your Bonded would deserve an infidel like you?” She gathers her clothing, and wears them quickly, while John processes the extent of her words.

She rises, and collects the cards into a deck, “Goodnight, John. It’s time for bed.”

It is, indeed, time for bed. Things have gone too far. He has a mission that he has to complete. He must escape. He is here for a reason. A reason he can’t remember very well.

 

* * *

 

Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday, 19th April, 5:00 pm

 

Moran is officially supposed to be in Tijuana now. Well, according to what Sherlock and his hosts know. Little do they know that he's just outside the port city in the guise of an old man, at a hotel across an inn, keeping his eye on the window of his room. An eye out for the man who is supposed to come with Thomas to collect the money and the food. Then, Thomas will have a good, stable home with better parents, and Sherlock will be able to work at the peak of his faculties.

That’s what Moran has kept telling himself over the last twelve hours, as if to absolve himself of the terrible weight of some guilt hanging over his head like a dark shadow.

The child needs to go. The company of Alphas like himself and Charles is no good for fast-growing, intelligent babies.

Over the last few days, Moran often found himself comparing Thomas to his little pups. They’d been sucking at his Bonded’s chest the last he’d seen them. And that is how they remain in his memory, all before he was discharged from military service. And to see Sherlock breastfeed Thomas, it reminds him of his Bonded, a Bond forged out of one reckless night of pleasure.

He closes his eyes, fisting his fingers harder and harder until his uncut nails drew blood. There was no time for second guessing. Procuring a dead baby the size of Thomas hadn’t been difficult, but it was hard to say about the method employed to search for the aforementioned baby: whether it was a genuine search, or an on-demand thing.

It would break Sherlock, Moran finds himself musing, flinching inwardly at the thought.

And it would make him stronger, another voice replies. A voice which isn’t persuasive enough.

 

~~~

 

Thankfully for Samuel, the child is a peaceful one, curious even. His blue eyes are radiant, and so is his sweet innocent smile, and the little teethless gums. Samuel has smuggled babies like this one, and he’s never failed to form a bond with even a single one, regardless of however naughty they might have been at the beginning. It’s easier that way. They all cry at the end, when Samuel leaves them to the agents responsible for taking them to their new homes. They are going to have a better life after all, Samuel reasons, proud of himself for making such a difference in the world.

The basket of food would be more than enough for this little thing. Armed with a canister of milk, and a package of napkins and some semi-solid food, Samuel walks around the inn to wait to get into a van to start for the border. Passing through the alley, he hears a whistle, as if beckoning him. He stops, and inspects the place around. This side of the town isn’t as delightful as the bundle in his arms.

“Vamos, pequeño bebé,” he says to Thomas, “Vamos a salir de aquí.” _Come on, little baby. Let’s get out of here._

No sooner did he say that he feels his head coming in contact with something heavy. Pain shoots out above his ear, as he crumbles to his knees trying to get a look at his captor. Blond hair, blue eyes, like the baby . . . a huge man . . . six feet . . . eerily familiar.

 

“A job almost well done, lad,” Moran sighs, dragging a startled Thomas out of his strong grip and stuffing some greens into his pockets, “But I’m sorry. Just five minutes of blackout, and you’ll be alright.”

 

* * *

 

Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday, 19th April, 7:05 pm

 

When Sherlock returns to the guest house, he gets the distinct feeling that something is very wrong with the house.

It’s sweltering hot, as if someone’s lit a fire inside, but there’s no conflagration, or noise or distress. Contrary to his racing heart, everything is still and quiet. Too quiet. He’s learnt long ago to trust his instincts over everything else. His heart leaps into his throat.

Thomas.

Racing upwards as fast as he can, Sherlock almost slips at the stairs. Why’s there no one with Thomas in his rooms? Why’s there no activity, no sound?

The door to his and Moran’s suite is ajar. The room is empty. No Thomas, no Sesasi . . .

Sesasi. Sherlock’s blood boils. Where has she taken his baby? She was supposed to keep watch over the boy, while Moran was gone and . . . Moran. Did he . . . was he involved in this? All Sherlock is capable of thinking is that out there, somewhere, his child is there, and something horrible is happening to him.

A groan from downstairs answers his doubts. Sherlock listens carefully. There’s sounds of crackling, the crackling of fire. Panicking, Sherlock rushes downstairs, through the corridor and into the main room.

He pauses in his sprint upon seeing Sesasi, facing bright hot flames that licked the top of the hearth. Her arms are outstretched, perilously close to the fire. In her outstretched arms is a bundle. In the bundle, the little toes of a baby’s feet are visible.

His eyes widen as he realizes what she’s about to do.

“NO!” Sherlock cries out, louder than he’d cried out when the Atlantic had rushed to meet him and John, louder than he’d cried out when Hunter had penetrated him, louder than he’d cried out when he’d birthed Thomas. “You evil woman!” he shrieks and runs towards her in a desperate attempt to stop her, “Put my son down!”

The roar seems to unsettle her for a moment, and her knees seem to buckle, but not before Sesasi tosses the child into the fire.

“NO!” is the only thing Sherlock could shout as the baby’s little body catches fire before he can reach the fireplace. Almost diving into the fire, he pulls the little body out, paying no mind to the fact that his clothes were starting to catch fire. Falls to his feet trying to rescue his baby. Oh, the beautiful pink skin is melting, blackening. The hair is golden no more, and there’s nothing he can do to undo it. Sherlock, trembling with shock and agony, turns over the burnt cloth now sticking to the child’s face, tears blurring his vision. Even in the midst of chaos, Sherlock notices one thing: Thomas hadn’t cried one during the whole thing.

“Usted es una mala madre,”Sesasi’s voice trembles, as if she were reciting off a book. “Después de este sacrificio a Dios, va a ser una buena madre.” _You are a bad mother. After this sacrifice to God, you will be a good mother_.

“He was my child,” Sherlock croaks, unable to look away from the blurry vision of his burnt, peeling skin, “My only child.”

“Sherlock!”

Moran’s voice falls on deaf ears as numbing shock falls over Sherlock. The familiar _da-da_ of Thomas sound like a figment of his imagination.

Until they appear in front of him. Sherlock creaks his neck just upwards to recognize the happy eyes and the golden hair of his Thomas.

Sherlock intakes air sharply, “I . . . hallucinating . . . Tijuana. . .”

“I’m come back, Sherlock,” Moran’s arms tremble as he offers Thomas to him, “He is safe,” and then turns to look at Sesasi with a hateful glare, “I knew of this witch’s intentions, so I kept your child safe and placed a dead boy in his bed.”

Sesasi’s eyes widen, “I no witch, senor. He tell me to burn the baby. He. . .”

The rest of her sentence doesn’t matter to Sherlock as he takes Thomas in his arms. A very alive and healthy and happy Thomas. Sherlock chokes on his bile, swallowing the bitter saliva down and joining his forehead with Thomas, listening to his little heart beating, to the sounds of his gurgling, of his breath. So alive. Oh, his baby.

“My baby,” his whispers, “You were in Tijuana. How . . .?”

“Shh,” the colonel wraps his arms around Sherlock and Thomas, embracing them, and Sherlock feels his life returning to him, slowly. Oddly, he’s never felt so secure before, in any other Alpha’s arms.

“Seb,” Sherlock whispers, “I thought she got Thomas. I thought she . . .”

The illusion of safety is broken at once when Sesasi tugs at Moran’s hair cruelly and smacks him across his cheek, “¡Mentiroso! ¡Tramposo!” _You liar! You cheater!_

But no sooner had she struck him that Moran catches hold of her arms, holding her down. He looks at Sherlock solemnly, “Justice will be done, my dear.” And with that, he drags a screaming and kicking Sesasi outside the main room.

Sherlock turns back to Thomas, who’s looking at him with his now-serious eyes, “I’ll never leave you alone with strangers ever again.”

 

* * *

 

House Chamber, Capitol Hill. Washington DC. Monday, 20th April 1914, 10:00 am

 

“I don’t know what you’re up to, Mycroft,” President Wilson had remarked in his office, when Mycroft had told him that it would be unwise and, in short, illegal to detain the steamer in an attempt to undo the damage he’d already done, “You’re a genius. But you’re also young, and this is not how we do things in here. It’s now a matter of national pride. The Congress will take some time, but they’ll approve the occupation.”

Mycroft had debated for the better length of the hour about how unnecessary the invasion would be, seeing as the Huerta regime was already set for deposition. He went on like he never had, he knew that his arguments were weaker than that of his boss, but in the end, nothing he said could deter the President from the course of events he had already set into motion. The steamer  _SS Ypiranga_ would be docking at Veracruz, and there was nothing Mycroft could do to recall that order. It was only one day away from docking, after all.

So Mycroft has to be content with standing in a non-decrepit corner of the House Chamber while Wilson delivered his address to the Joint Session of the Congress.

“. . . Our feeling for the people of Mexico is one of deep and genuine friendship,” Wilson has said, “and everything that we have so far done or refrained from doing has proceeded from our desire to help them, not to hinder or embarrass them. . .”

He’d looked around the hall. Most of the people had looked like they already knew what Wilson was going to propose.

“. . . I, therefore, come to ask your approval that I should use the armed forces of the United States in such ways and to such an extent as may be necessary to obtain from General Huerta and his adherents the fullest recognition of the rights and dignity of the United States, even amidst the distressing conditions now unhappily obtaining in Mexico. . .”

Regardless of the fact that half the people had known, the hall broke into a smattering of discussion and exclamations. Mycroft had had his eyes on all of them. He knows every single of them.

“. . . There can in what we do be no thought of aggression or of selfish aggrandizement. We seek to maintain the dignity and authority of the United States only because we wish always to keep our great influence unimpaired for the uses of liberty, both in the United States and wherever else it may be employed for the benefit of mankind.”

Mycroft bows his head down low. Despite the discussion, he knows that the Congress would approve it. Wilson has won their opinions with his closing remarks.

“Oh, my dear brother,” he whispers to himself. Not noticing the horror stricken look on the face of the representative of Worchester, Massachusetts. On the face of Senator Charles Augustus Milverton.

 

* * *

 

Veracruz, Mexico. Tuesday. April 20th, 1914. 5:30 pm

 

"Pack your things," is the first thing that Moran says to Sherlock, who had been trying to console a crying Thomas when he enters their suite, "We have to leave."

"What? Why? And what of Sesasi?"

"I don't give a damn about a satanist woman now. She can rot, for all I care," he takes out his portmanteau, after tossing a telegram in Sherlock's direction, "Read that."

Sherlock takes it in his grip, out of Thomas' reach. A telegram from Von Bork: GET OUT WAR IMMINENT GO TO CHICAGO STOP. He frowns. Why Chicago? Why back to the city he'd fled from?

"Why're we going to Chicago?"

Moran smirks, "To visit an old friend."

 

* * *

 

 

 _The Buffalo_. Chicago. Tuesday. April 20 th, 1914. 10:04 pm

 

John cringes at the sudden flood of light on the floor when the door opens without notice. John’s heart leaps to his throat. It’s Mary.

“We need to escape from here,” she says, closing the door behind her, “I’ve been hearing things and it’s too dangerous for you to stay here. And for me.”

John gulps, “Mary . . .”

“Now’s not the time!” she hisses, “Sherlock Holmes is in Boston. Along with my boss. I delivered him there, and now I’m going to take you to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History notes: 
> 
> 1) Wilson's speech excerpts: http://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/woodrow_wilson.php
> 
> 2) 21st April: US occupation of Veracruz. So these guys are running from that.
> 
> Also, as it seems quite obvious from the end, John and Sherlock finally reunite in the next chapter. Promise x
> 
> Read and review! <3


	30. The Fire in Chicago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they reunite! *gosh, that was a long journey*
> 
> Shout-out to anyone who still cares about this. Girl/guy (most probably girl), you are awesome (and perhaps jobless like me :P). I've picked up the BBC Sherlock trend now-a-days. Release a chapter or two once a year (and try to leave someone dead-but-not-dead).
> 
> Have an exam day after tomorrow. Gonna start studying for it tomorrow. Wish me luck!
> 
> War, angst, Mycroft-messing to follow. Don't know when the next chapter's going to come. For now, just gonna bask in the validation that kudos and comments give, so bring 'em on!
> 
> Ignore spelling, grammar for now, yada yada

Texas. Wednesday. April 21st, 1914. 6:47 am

 

Sherlock looks up from Thomas to see Moran watching him, tilted head, right eyebrow raised, a faint smirk on his lips.

“See something you like?” he asks cheekily.

Moran looks away, exhaling, but his smile remains, “Haven’t been in Texas since I was twenty. I like the air here. The open space. The hunting.”

“Boring things.”

“Oh, and breastfeeding babies is extremely interesting.”

“Oh, much more interesting than shooting at animals. For God’s sake, hunting!” He utters ‘hunting’ as if it’s a curse word.

“Then maybe I ought to try it.”

For one second, Sherlock is caught offhand at the insinuation, but he recovers quite quickly, “Sorry if it’s not crossed your terribly small mind, but you do not have breasts.”

Moran’s smirk grows, “Good. I expected you to stutter when I said that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, don’t be _so_ sorry all the time. It’s a pleasure, believe me.”

Sherlock gives him a quick half-smile, and looks out the window. Texas is very different from what he’s seen of America. There’s green grass everywhere. The dust is fluffy, not sooty like that in Chicago or Boston. The sky is blue, as opposed to the grey atmosphere of the cities. He’s never been in the countryside. But when he looks out, sees those huge lands and the isolated little houses, he cannot help think how far those homesteads were from the reach of law and how grotesque as a result their stories could be inside the peaceful, darling facades of the cottages.

They’re in a van, and the road is extremely uneven and bumpy. Moran did not bring his car along for the sole reason of anonymity. After being dropped off at the station, they’d travel to Chicago by train. Moran’s told him that it was a matter of loose ends which led him back to Chicago. Probably from his previous work in there.

“You know, most Alphas don’t even get to meet an Omega over their lifetime.”

“And I know two,” Moran drawls, “Are you about to tell me that I’m very lucky? I hope not.”

“No. Just making an interesting observation.”

Moran raises his eyebrow at Sherlock, who doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a conversation. He then folds his arms, “I’ve never told you about what I used to do before, have I?”

Even though Sherlock’s interest is peaked, he pretends to be indifferent, letting out a huff for his lack of interest to look more genuine, “Don’t bother, colonel. I know most of the important facts from your habits anyway.”

“Oh yes, of course. Do you know I like dogs?”

“I once saw you pet a stray dog back in Chicago.”

“Do you know that I had a dog?”

“The way you petted the dog told me as much.”

“Then there’s nothing else to say, I suppose. You know everything about me.”

Inwardly, Sherlock is beaming with happiness, “The only continent you haven’t been to is Antarctica. You’ve spent more time in Africa than Asia. You were involved for quite a time in South America, in Argentina. You were a hunting escort to someone of importance in Asia, probably India.”

“Personal shooting instructor to the Prince of Wales during his time in India,” there’s a note of pride in his voice.

Sherlock folds his arms, “Where were you in Africa?”

“My posting was in South Africa.”

Sherlock does not speak, only stays quiet. Moran has something to say, and he wants to hear it. But when the silence between them grows longer, he prompts further, “What did you do there?”

“My job was to track the shipment of gold removed from the Central Bank of Pretoria and prevent it from reaching its destination.”

Sherlock frowns. He had always thought that that bit was only a myth, “The buried treasure of Kruger’s Millions, you mean?”

“Yes. It would’ve gone to the exiled Boers in the Netherlands, but the English couldn’t have that. We diverted it from its route before it could be shipped off. Buried it, never told anyone where.”

“Go on.”

“After burying the gold, I went back to fight in the battle of Bergendal, because that’s what I had really wanted to do. But I was captured by the Portuguese.

“I met him in the Portuguese internment camp in Pretoria. He was twenty, the son of one of the guards. You’d think they keep such a slice locked away from the rest of the world, in a castle made of glass, but no. You’d think that the Portuguese are conservative, but no.”

Sherlock realizes who he is talking about and keeps silent.

“He used to come and dangle himself in front of me. I was the only European Alpha in that prison, and I was very young, so I got a lot of attention from him. The moment I set eyes on him, I wanted him.

“One night, when I was half-awake, when everybody else was sleeping, he came to me. We talked for two hours. He talked of his father, he talked of his unsatisfied Estrus and before dawn, the key was in the lock and I was two miles away from the camp with him, on my way to Paris. Fucked him, got Bonded, told him I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, all in a daze of lust and hormones. All without a single thought of how I was tying myself down with no way out.”

Something unpleasant twists inside Sherlock. What if, had John been alive, such thoughts would later come into his head?

“It’s not easy. When a young Alpha meets an Omega and gets Bonded that quick, it’s the death of his life. Of both their lives. All I could think about all day long was how to keep him safe, how to feed him, how to fuck him. I couldn’t think about what to do with my life.

“When money started running short, I came back to my senses. We made our way to Aldershot; it’s in southern England. I had a choice: rejoin military service, or make a living for myself. I decided not to go back to my family; they’d force me away from him and I couldn’t have that. So, I reported back, got my pregnant Omega up with an old woman and left for South Africa. Resumed my post. Figured that only honest living would feed my Omega and my future children. Figured I wouldn’t do anything that would dishonor him.”

“But you did,” Sherlock remarks, inspecting Moran closely, “I’ve always been of the opinion that something drastic turned you against England. A young man from a noble family graduates from Oxford, has suitable job and marriage prospects, but he runs away to join military service. And now, he hates England.”

“And why wouldn’t I? You haven’t seen the things I have, Sherlock. You don’t wake up to the sound of shrieks of children burning. You don’t wake up to the sound of your beating heart while you escape from a prison in Bermuda, swimming through shark-infested waters.”

Sherlock wants to tell Moran that he’s not any better. He still wakes up to the shrieks of a thousand damned souls sliding down to their death into the yawning Hell that the Titanic had become during the sinking; he still wakes up to the low, throaty moan of an Alpha raping him, holding him down.

“I found myself back in the village where I had been stationed. I saw it burnt, to the ground. Bodies burnt, blackened bones. Women raped, then burned, in their homes, in their beds. I had made a Boer friend called Danube. His mother loved me very much. I learned that she was dying in a British concentration camp.

“I had taken a bullet in my leg at the Siege of Ladysmith for England. I protected the stolen gold against armed robbers and got this cut over my lip and a stab in the back, all for England. And this was how England had repaid me.

“Country, the King, they tell you that they are civilizing those unfortunate people. That colonizing these dark countries is a lifelong mission. That it’s our noble duty to bring civilization to these Negroes. That’s why I took such grave offence when you accused the Mexicans of blood sacrifice and beheadings to appease their gods. But where is civilization in killing people and taking their lands and their gold? Is it civilization when you cut their hands, shut their mouths and burn their homes and their lands down?”

“If you’re so anti-war,” Sherlock interrupts, “why are you in the same camp as the man whose intent is to start a war?”

For a second, Moran is caught off-guard, but he resumes his face very quickly, “Oh, I’m not anti-war, Sherlock. I’m anti-colonialism. The moment England declares war on Germany, the people in the colonies, they all would have won half the battle.

“That’s why I continued at my post, in South Africa. I told myself that my lifelong mission was no longer to civilize those people of the Dark Continent. He constantly wrote to me, told me to come back. By nature, I should’ve been forced to write back. He had delivered twins, but I didn’t write. When I thought of him, I felt like I was being chained. I felt frustrated because I couldn’t be intimate anymore with anyone other than him. He wrote of how I brought dishonor upon him several times with the charges of espionage on my head, and every time I was caught, he’d flood me with letters, telling me to come back, telling me to beg them for mercy.”

“That’s what I’d expect of any Omega,” Sherlock remarks, but catches his derisive tone at once.

“They killed my men but not me. I told the English I’d give them secret Boer codes. So I gave them false codes and I kept thinking. How foolish it was of me to even Bond so quickly. I love him very much, but . . . I only wished I had had more choice in choosing a mate for myself.”

Sherlock’s breath catches, “Oh.”

Moran looks at him as if he were a stranger, “Having met you, I wish I had more choice.”

Sherlock purses his lips together. Moran isn’t looking away. He’s assessing his reaction. His blue eyes, despite his words, betray no emotion. They’re fixed on his. As if also involved in the conspiracy, Thomas isn’t providing a single distraction. He’s figured out long ago that their desire for each other was mutual, but he’s never imagined that he’d come out so openly about it. For the first time, Sherlock has nothing to say. His heart isn’t beating any faster. Neither does he feel anxious, or nervous about it. And neither is he glad to hear it.

After some uncomfortable moments of silence, Sherlock speaks up, his voice low, “I’m no different from your Bonded. I’m nineteen and I have a baby to take care of, just like him.”

Moran smiles, and, _oh_ , it’s that secret, naughty smile that Moran gives him when he’s pulling his leg, “Never known you to call yourself _ordinary_.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Sherlock reminds his dutifully, “but, I’m only stating the two parameters you must have taken note of when we first met.”

“That was on the Titanic, in my stateroom. And you were with your Bonded.”

It’s a long time since he’s gone back to that memory. Oddly, the warmth that usually comes up with it isn’t there anymore, “Oh, I’d nearly forgotten—”

“You know, the first thing I noticed about you wasn’t the fact that you’re an Omega. It was how _useless_ you were as an Omega. The point is, at least my head was clear when I met you.”

For the sake of a distraction, Sherlock picks up Thomas, who is watching them avidly, and wipes the drool off his mouth for the umpteenth time.

“I should expect so. Pulling off a con like that while not in your best state of mind, tut tut.”

“Han-ker,” Thomas remarks, his big blue eyes watching his mother’s fingers move in front of him.

“Hand-ker-chief.”

Sherlock’s made it a habit out of Thomas to make him say the name of everything he comes in contact with, in order to make him learn words faster and more efficiently. If he’s eating, he’s first supposed to say ‘food’ and then name whatever he’s eating or drinking.

“Han-ker . . .”

“Chief. Say ‘chief’.”

“Chief.”

“Now say, handkerchief.”

“Han-ker-chef,” a confused Thomas concludes, looking to his mother for approval.

“You’re rushing him,” Moran tuts, “Children shouldn’t learn things so fast.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the display of backward thinking on Moran’s part, “I’m the mother. And besides, children can learn at whatever speed they like.”

“Nonsense. I’ve been a parent longer than you.”

“Absent one at that.”

Moran’s smile vanishes, “Now now, Mr. Holmes. What I said earlier didn’t grant you the liberty of saying whatever you like.”

Sherlock huffs, not sorry at the least. Facts are facts, “I always say whatever I like.”

Moran leans against the wooden frame of the van, “Now that I think, I can’t imagine seeing you without your son. The thought that that old woman—”

Sherlock held Thomas tighter in his arms, despite his silent protests, “That was . . . something I had not expected.”

“I know. She loved Thomas very much, but some people can be twisted.”

“Not that. What you did was unexpected . . . Seb. When I discovered that Thomas was not in his bed, my suspicion was instantly on you.”

Moran nods, then looks away, to outside the van. Sherlock knows it’s ungrateful to say so, but he has to say it. He’s not known the man to shy away from the truth.

“I know. But the fact of the matter is,” he leans forward and places a tentative palm on Sherlock’s knee, “Thomas is under your protection as he is under mine. As long as I’m here, he won’t come to any harm.”

Sherlock does not meet his eyes. It’s hard to believe that, or it should have been hard, had it been perhaps a month ago. But now, after what happened in Veracruz, it’s not so difficult to believe in what Moran has said. It’s hard to pretend he doesn’t believe.

He’s a Bonded Alpha, Sherlock tells himself. Moran is biologically incapable of associating himself with another Omega. He has no reason to trust him simply because Moran has no obligation to keep his trust.

“Tell me more.”

Moran is caught off-guard by the sudden change in the topic, “About?”

“About whatever happened after you got arrested in South Africa.”

“There’s not much surprise in that. I get arrested and I escape. You know that.”

Sherlock smiles briefly. The colonel’s said enough; won’t say beyond that and he certainly isn’t keen to sound too nosy, “Only too well, colonel.” Turns Thomas around to look into his eyes, “Say the A-B-C, Thomas. You can go to sleep after that.”

Thomas frowns, pouting, as if he’s been made a bad deal. Sherlock sighs, “Fine then. You can sleep there,” he points on the rough, dusty bench beside him, “instead of here,” he gives his lap a pat.

He hears Moran chuckle. It’s nice to know that Moran thinks he’s funny.

“A-B-C . . .”

When Sherlock makes Thomas chant the alphabet, the entire place needs to be quiet. It’s not a matter of mental concentration; it’s more of an attention thing. Barely a year old and Thomas is already a big-time attention seeker, pouting and sulking at anyone who talks while he’s saying something. Sherlock and Moran have to be absolutely quiet while he tries to remember whether ‘M’ comes first or ‘N’. Sometimes, just to annoy Thomas, Moran starts talking, and Sherlock has to shoot him murderous looks in order to get him to stop but it’s usually too late.

“Who was the ‘Thomas’ in your family?”

Sherlock glares at Moran. The mischievous smirk he’s trying to hide is obvious. He’s doing it on purpose.

“Come on,” Moran prompts further, “Who did you name him after? I’ve never wondered.”

Thomas stops instantly, as if it’s a grave personal insult, and puffs up his mouth on ‘Q’. Sherlock shakes his head, “Can’t imagine why your curiosity arose now of all times.”

Moran puts his palms up, as Thomas’ puffed-up cheeks start to turn red, “It’s a proper and legitimate question.”

Thoroughly irritated, Sherlock places Thomas next to him, trying to poke his inflated cheeks, “You reached Q, Thomas. For the sake of your meal, I suggest you continue like a good one-year old.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Thomas knows the alphabet backwards. He doesn’t need to prove it every morning.”

Thomas turns to Moran, reviewing him with suspicion, as if thinking why the man who had been trivialising his mighty name a few moments ago was now supporting him against his mother.

“Oh, do shut up, colonel,” Sherlock remarks dismissively, “You rescue my son once and start behaving as his master.”

The moment Sherlock says that, he regrets his ungrateful choice of words. Moran looks completely taken aback. Sherlock heaves a deep, apologetic breath; he can’t say any more, can he? He averts his eyes, and picks Thomas up back into his lap. Unbuttons the front of his shirt, hiding his bosom behind Thomas’ golden head. Thomas, not believing his luck, makes no sound and takes Sherlock’s left nipple between his teeth, sucking lightly. Usually, the sensation always makes him feel very connected to him, but this time, so many random thoughts clutter his head up.

“That was uncalled for,” Moran says after the long silence has saturated them, “I expected my . . . confession to at least soften your prejudices against me, if not endear me towards you.”

Sherlock wants to counter; oh, those mean little spiteful words are just on the tip of his tongue. Words that come to him as naturally as deductions. That the colonel’s well-timed “confession”, as he called it, is a part of a bigger, clever plan, a conspiracy. A small voice in him says how odd the colonel’s manner of intervention to save Thomas was, how odd it was that he had to go to the extreme lengths to procure a baby of Thomas’ size and weight in order to lay waste to that Mexican woman’s evil ritual, how odd it was that the colonel chose to abandon Tijuana and the rest of his “missions” there, how odd it was that something that required Sherlock to travel away from his child happened almost on the same day as his baby’s staged execution.

But he doesn’t say them anyway. And that, followed by Moran’s wishful thinking of a different future, a future with him, is enough to make him believe that no matter what Von Bork did, to him or his baby, Moran would be there to keep an eye on them, clandestinely.

So he doesn’t say those things.

“I am sorry,” he says instead, surprised to find out that he means it, “Sebastian.”

Moran chuckles; it’s mostly humourless, “Something just struck me. Since you teach your boy to speak before he does something, like, say ‘apple’ before he eats one, won’t you teach him what . . .” he tries his best to point to Sherlock’s chest as discreetly as possible, “those are called?”

His mortification forgotten, Sherlock shoots Moran a white-hot side eye glare, “When should we be reaching the station?”

“Ah,” he takes out his pocket watch and glances at it, “By half-past seven. From there, a train to Chicago, and then a motel for tonight till tomorrow noon. I have a reservation by the name of Horace P. Spring.”

Sherlock smirks, “Where do you get these names? Do you and Erik sit together with two bags full of chits of paper, one for first name, the other for last name, and then do a lottery every time you need an alias?”

Moran does a mock bow, “I’ll pass on your ideas to Mr. Von Bork.”

 

* * *

 

State, War and Navy Building. Washington DC. Wednesday. April 21st, 1914. 7:03 am

 

While the government of the United States of America prepares for war, Mycroft sets his goals on cutting the collateral damage. He likes power, he likes knowing that someone as young as himself can influence the President of one of the most influential nations around the world, a man who is almost thrice as old as he is.

And in this case, he wielded it wrongly.

He will deal with Sherlock later. At first, he’ll have to get John back safely. Even though he knows that John values discretion, a small slip of tongue can endanger both Sherlock and him and his entire, carefully cultivated life.

Andrea strides in, a brown-colored envelope in her grip which she tosses on his desk, “The documentation you requested is ready.”

Mycroft nods, not lifting his head from his paperwork, “Good.”

“Two driver’s licenses. Expires in 1920. Just like you asked.”

“Splendid. Anything else?”

“Pattinson is here.”

He looks up and smiles politely. He loves his Bureau of Investigation friends, “Send him in.”

 

* * *

 

 _The Buffalo_ , Chicago. Wednesday. 21st April, 1914. 7:15 am

 

“John, wake up!”

The familiar voice is enough to startle him out of his sleep. He at once lifts himself, shifting his entire weight on his bottom. The pain in his rear stings out again, as if Mary had taken those stones out only yesterday.

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, “Did you . . .?”

“I did what you asked me to do,” she nods, bringing the jug of water to his parched lips, “Went straight to the wire office . . .”

“Yes, but it was addressed to . . .?”

“Yes, the Office of Naval Intelligence.”

“And not Mycroft.”

“Yes, not Mycroft, just like you said. John, it’s fine, just relax,” Mary smiles at him. Smiles, of all things. In her eyes, there’s a certain something, like an animal when it’s let out back into the wild. John can’t say that he doesn’t find that look enrapturing, and neither does he point that out to her; this is a crucial time, and if he says anything of that kind, it may upset her.

But the rest of her face, it still has the expression she had when she’d taken the decision to leave the place: white, gaunt, as if there is this weight on her chest that she can’t take off.

“Read out your wire to me.”

Mary sighs, “You wouldn’t understand what I wrote.”

John frowns, “And why not?”

“Because I’m the one in spy business and not you. I sent the wire in code, something called a skip code. And if this Mycroft is _so_ intelligent, he’ll understand that it came from you without any indiscretion on your part.”

John’s eyes widen in horror, “You didn’t write my name, did you? I forgot to tell you . . .”

“Relax. The name I gave is Altamont. I hope he’ll get the reference.”

John sighs in relief. Mary’s done more than he could’ve asked for. The first part of the plan was done. Mycroft would respond within a day or two . . .

“I don’t think your ‘Mycroft’ would expect a skip code from me.”

“Which,” Mary responds, “is a good thing. He’ll believe that the wire was sent to obtain ransom for your release, and if he’s half as powerful as you say, he’ll have this place stormed, the goons arrested and us free.”

“You . . . I told you to send the wire to ask for help!”

Mary appears irritated, to John’s surprise. Why can’t she understand that in such a plan, they would not distinguish between her and Breckenridge or McCarthy?

“Please, John, enlighten me on the particular kind of help you have in mind.”

“I’d leave that for Mycroft to decide, but with what you wrote . . . never mind, what’s done is done. Now, for Plan B. What if something happens to us before they come?”

Mary chuckles, “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”

“In case it does happen, I need you to do one last thing for me. When I first came here, I was armed with a firearm. McCarthy took it from me, so we’ll need that back.”

Mary frowns, “Alright. What type of firearm is it?”

“A pistol.”

“I meant ‘type’ as in what model it is.”

“Oh,” John feels like an idiot in front of her. Why had he never even thought of asking Mycroft . . . and why hadn’t Mycroft even told him? “I don’t know.”

Mary seems to understand, “I’ll manage. McCarthy took it, yes? I know the kind of man he is. It’ll be with his personal belongings.”

John nodded, “How serious is the threat?”

“McCarthy is digging me up. He’s going to find out any day. John, remember. The moment I tell you to leave, you leave. If I’m doing a thing, trust me to complete it. Don’t try and interfere because you’re an Alpha who just can’t be discreet.”

“Ouch.”

Mary smiles sadly, “Alright. I’ll see you after lunchtime.” She looks like she wants to say something more, but she doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

Dallas, Texas. Wednesday. April 21st, 1914. 7:25 am

 

“Let me take that,” Moran cuts in between Sherlock and his portmanteau when they disembark from their vehicle in front of the railroad station. The noise, the heat, the sweat, it’s unbearable. It’s been a while since Sherlock’s seen such vibrant activity, the last one being in Southampton while boarding Titanic . . .

“What?” He frowns, pulling at Moran’s arm with one hand for his luggage, expertly balancing Thomas on the other.

Moran gives him a why’re-you-being-so-unreasonable look, “You have a baby.”

Sherlock is a bit nonplussed at this roundabout change in Moran’s attitude, “I had a baby when I arrived at Veracruz. And I had a baby when I left Boston. Nobody condescended to be a porter for me then.”

Moran rolls his eyes, “Just come quickly. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

 

~~~

 

Comfortably seated in their first-class compartment, Sherlock and Thomas alone, Moran out with the stationmaster. The steam clouds are thick and billowy, and Thomas, held securely in Sherlock’s lap, stares up, mouth open, at the white steam. Once or twice, a horn blows in the distance, and Sherlock has to plug his ears to shield him from the noise.

The compartment door opens and Moran slips in, plopping down on the seat in front of him.

“You can let him free now,” he remarks, twiddling his thumb at Thomas, “I’ve closed the door.”

“Oh no,” Sherlock shakes his head, “he’ll fall and hurt his head. And that too during the journey. No, that will be a disaster, especially for you, since you complained all through our way to Veracruz.”

Moran smirks, “Aren’t you a big, big idiot?”

Sherlock looks at him shocked. Oh, the nerve of this man, calling _him_ idiot, “I beg your pardon?”

“Teaching your son to read before he can walk properly! Are you insane? He’s over one year old and he can’t walk without holding on to you.”

“Oh please, there’s no need to blame me. Besides, he’s an intelligent boy. He just needs to practice a bit more!”

“Oh, so you’re just going to hold on to him forever, are you? Makes you feel needed, you like that?”

Sherlock scowls. What’s the matter with Moran all of a sudden? Why being all parent-y with a baby he barely likes, “You’re being absurd! And since when do _you_ care?”

Whatever was going to come as Moran’s response gets choked in a second. Moran shuts his mouth like a goldfish, and something resembling disgust is apparent in his face. When Moran finally backs down, Sherlock feels a bit awkward. Trying to stir up more conversation, he tries a different approach, “What’s happened? Why aren’t we leaving?”

 

~~~

 

“Trains always depart a little later than scheduled,” Moran chastises, peering at his pocket watch. He glares at Sherlock and Thomas, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. He’s now starting to regret his decision of not selling Thomas away. It had been a fairly good deal, with very good achievements. Thomas would have been in proper care under proper parents, and Sherlock would’ve been rid of the burdens of a baby. He knows by personal experience how Omegas that young shouldn’t be burdened with children to take care of.

Regrettably, in that crucial moment, his heart, his feelings, his inability to see Sherlock broken-hearted over his dead child, had turned him against the reason of his own mind.

“I have a feeling you’re going to be arrested,” Sherlock’s face is full of glee, “That’s why it’s taking the train so long.”

Moran gives him a humourless smile and grabs an orange, peeling it, “What an inconvenience that would be.”

“Hmm. Well, you did talk with the stationmaster. I bet he informed the New York Police at once.”

Sebastian is now humoured. No matter how clever Sherlock is, he’s never really been able to gauge the true extent of their operations, “Oh really?”

“Oh yes.”

“And what do you think they’ll do with you? An Omega’s testimony in the court is half the value of that of an Alpha.”

“You’ll find that things work just the opposite way in the police station. Omegas are generally victims of male chauvinism, you see, and other Alphas waste no time to show themselves as ‘The Man’.”

Moran snorts, “That’s the best you could come up with?”

“I doubt you’ll get the chance to see my best.”

The train gives a lurch, with nothing visible outside save the smoke. The engine sound is deafening. No arrests, no complications.

“We shall see.”

 

* * *

 

 State, War and Navy Building. Washington DC. Wednesday. April 21st, 1914. 1:45 pm

 

The troops had landed on Mexican soil like clockwork.

The United States Atlantic Fleet under Rear Admiral Fletcher dispatched to Mexico had reached in morning. The first Americans to land were the party from _USS Prairie_. 502 US Marines from the 2nd Advanced Base Regiment, 285 armed Navy sailors from _USS Florida_  and a provisional battalion composed of the Marine detachments from  _USS Utah_  had landed by the time Mycroft had received the information from the American Consulate in Veracruz.

The port, customs office, the telegraph offices and the railroad terminal had all been captured, along with the shipments aboard the _SS Ypiranga._ Which had given Mycroft considerable advantage. By the time Mycroft got off the phonecall with the Consul General in Veracruz, one thing had become very clear. Jules Stoughton, Colonel Moran’s alias, had left Mexico the night before, or so the wire records of the Veracruz cable office stated.

And probably, so had Sherlock.

The wire was from the Philadelphia cable office, with instructions to go to Chicago, making things considerably simpler for Mycroft. A routine check into all motels would reveal any suspicious last minute check-ins with short period stays.

So Sherlock is covered.

Now for the most difficult part. Getting John out. Alive.

A knock on his door startles him from his reverie. Mycroft glances at the opaque shadow outside his door, “Yes, come in Hal.”

Hal, a boy not much younger than him, strides in. Mycroft’s position and age earns him a lot of envious looks and resentment in office, “Your mail, Sir.”

“Thank you Hal.”

 Hal deposits the majority of the armload of envelopes and parcels on his desk, and leaves with a wistful look at the office, at Mycroft’s chair and the general aura of importance around him. Mycroft digs into them at once. Usually he gets about 3-4 letters and an average of 5-6 telegrams at 3 o’clock, but today . . . Even if someone did not know of what was happening outside, to any logical person, looking at the pile of communication, it would be obvious for them to infer that they were at war.

He peers at a singularly small one. It doesn’t have any seal or logo or any signature as of such. He turns it over. It’s a telegram, but . . .

WEAPONS OF SOME STOCK BROKER SHOT BUFFALO IN WAYS ILLEGAL UNDER LAW TODAY BUT WHEN ESCAPING RESPONSIBILITY THEY NEED SYMPATHY AND HELP FROM OTHERS ALTAMONT STOP

Mycroft frowns. Turns it over. It’s only a couple of hours old. It’s come from inside the United States.

It’s from Chicago. And then he remembers the name.

“Andrea!”

Two dainty click-clacks later, Andrea materializes through the entrance to his office, “Yes, sir?”

“Get me Pattinson right now!”

 

* * *

 

Chicago, Illinois. Wednesday. 21st April, 1914. 5:45 pm

 

Their ride, a sweet maroon Delauney-Belleville, arrives ten minutes after they’ve left the station. Sherlock is quiet throughout the entire ride to the motel. He can’t remember the last time he’d talked for such length, so brazenly and with so much sexual innuendo peppered in their conversations. It’s a miracle that he did not think ‘fuck it’ and seize Moran by his collar and kiss the wind out of him.

He glances across at Moran, who has more or less laid his entire story bare in front of Sherlock, and eerily, Sherlock understands, even sympathises. It is as if he were looking back at Moran’s life with Moran’s own mind and his own thoughts, and to be inside another person’s mind, sans facts and deductions, was more intimate than intimacy itself.

If only they didn’t have to go back at all. He feels as though it’s not possible to run into another Alpha’s arms, much less Von Bork’s. Not after this.

“There’s a girl,” Moran exclaims, when they’ve settled in their motel room. It’s small, it has hot water and one window. Decent. Tom snuggles up closer, not liking the small, unfamiliar room.

Nodding, Sherlock strokes Tom’s hair as Moran unpacks his luggage, reveals what looks like a dismantled sniper rifle. It’s going to be an assassination, but whose? “Any trouble?”

“That’s why I like her so much,” he smirks, “She received the orange pips yesterday. I reckon she must have started packing by now. Seven odd months since she last wrote back.”

Orange pips is a peculiarity of the secret societies that had sprung up in the South after the Civil War, most notably that of the Ku Klux Klan. But sniper rifles weren’t Ku Klux Klan’s style, “So you miss her?”

Moran just snorts at that, “Von Bork misses her.”

“Is it an ordered hit?”

Moran smiles, “God, no. She just knows what it means. And because of that, I know what she’s going to do as soon as she gets them.”

Sherlock frowns. That explains the sniper rifle. Moran just wants to draw the rabbit out.

Most likely someone from their own establishment. Someone they had employed long ago, but had gone rogue, or had simply quit. A loose end, therefore. Someone who had gone AWOL and knew too much to be left alone. Illinois makes sense. Von Bork keeps his mainstream activity confined to the eastern states. Anyone would take refuge here.

But Chicago is too much of a coincidence. Had this person really wanted to avoid detection, she would have got to the country. Word spreads slower in the countryside. Why would she live in the city, where the space was too small, and the number of people too many?

“I will return by one. You and Thomas can eat in that diner opposite. They serve some marvellous steak and cobbler.”

Sherlock observes his swift, sure movements as he packs his rifle into a small bag and takes off his waistcoat. He’s been here before. Moran knows the place well.

Seven months. Chicago. Close to the nine months since he’d got out of Chicago and towards Boston. There’s too much coincidence. Except that too much coincidence is not possible.

Just then Moran takes his shirt off, and Sherlock looks away at once. Not the best time to get distracted by an Alpha’s body. And it seems that Moran knows how he’d react, because he chuckles and remarks without turning, “You can look. After all, my back is very different from yours.”

Sherlock still doesn’t look, “Only in girth, I’m sure.”

“Tut tut, judging before seeing. How unlike you.”

Sherlock steals one glance, and then looks away again.

The rest of Moran’s upper body is fair, unlike his tanned face and wrists. Years and years of punishment, lashes, whips, gashes adorn it. Some have healed, some look like the impression of the instrument of pain used to inflict the gashes, only with skin filling the crevices. Sherlock turns his head to look for a second time, only to find black cloth swallowing golden skin.

He draws a deep breath. Moran’s body was a symbol of years and years of suffering, “What kept you going? For all those years?”

Moran looks up from his torso and gazes at Sherlock for a long time with frightening tenderness, “You mean why I didn’t end my life?”

Sherlock nods wordlessly. There was a time he had wanted to die. How come had Moran not wanted to die?

“Because I knew that one day I’d be doing this.”

And he doesn’t care to elaborate any further, leaving Sherlock to wonder whether he meant his life as a sabotage agent or whether he meant spending his time with Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

State, War and Navy Building. Washington DC. Wednesday. April 21st, 1914. 6:15 pm

 

If Mycroft Holmes told any random stranger in the street just how much control the government and the intelligence have over the law enforcement, they’d leave America within a week.

And then he remembers that common people don’t even know the distinction between government and the Bureau of Investigation, the central law enforcement agency. Simpletons.

The telegram was not a ransom message. Mycroft had to give it to John; he’s made a friend. And that friend can send a skip code. A ransom, or a trap of any way wouldn’t come after one-and-a-half month. This is a clear invitation to send the police as a means of distraction for John and his ‘friend’ to escape.

Mycroft has considered the alternative: that John has yielded. If that were so, they wouldn’t have sent such a message. They would’ve sent something which compelled _him_ to come down and not the police: a threat of a personal nature.

But all it says is: WEAPONS STOCK BUFFALO ILLEGAL TODAY ESCAPING NEED HELP ALTAMONT STOP

And the message is definitely not from Sherlock. He knows John. Despite what John said to him, the first thing he will do upon reconciling with Sherlock is hand over the reins to Sherlock and tell him that Mycroft had orchestrated their reunion. A rare Alpha John was, Mycroft bemuses, knowing when to take charge and knowing when to let his cleverer Omega take over.

Although, Mycroft wonders, would reconciliation possible at all when John discovers that Sherlock has a baby that is probably not his.

So Mycroft had done what John had asked. Sent three Bureau officers with search warrants for the pub down to Chicago. They would then arrive at the police division and go down to the place, detain for questioning the ones that John needs escaping from.

But it’s a bad plan. With many loopholes. Mycroft cannot risk one of the officers detaining John, who is probably a prisoner there. And he cannot risk John revealing his identity. He’d taken a big risk the first time in the hopes that it was Sherlock.

He leans back into his chair. What is life if not risked for loved ones?

 

* * *

 

Chicago, Illinois. Wednesday. 21st April, 1914. 9:37 pm

 

The apartment two streets away from _Buffalo_ is empty and dark. Moran had the key till the roof. On the roof, there is a tripod. Mounted on the tripod is a sniper rifle. It is pointed at one of the windows of the pub, the one from where the bar maids are all visible between the counter and the rum.

Moran has to wait for the late night. Men are starting to fill inside the pub, the lights starting to dim. Still no sight of Mary Morstan. One of his boys had reported to him ten minutes ago. Mary is not on duty tonight, nor could they find her and lure her out of the pub, make a clean job of it.

He has chosen an unfortunate day.

She can’t have left yet. She only received the pips yesterday.

A Beta boy’s faint sound rings downstairs, “Mr. Spring!” There’s urgency in the adolescent voice.

Moran blinks, gives the window a last look before abandoning his watch and going down the steps to the dimly lit apartment, “Yes? And why hasn’t the other one returned yet?”

“Billy – sir – he’s still in the pub, sir.”

Moran looks at him, prompting.

“He – sir – !”

“Speak up, boy! You’re not a damn kitchen mouse!”

“They have the cops in there, sir. Asking them . . . stuff.”

Moran’s head is spinning. Brilliant! Cops were here to steal the show. Bill was wanted by the Chicago police for two robberies and a stabbing incident. Thankfully Bill doesn’t know the real identity of Horace P. Spring.

“Call the others back, and stay in the room downstairs.”

The skinny Beta boy nods fearfully. Probably Bill’s best friend. Whatever.

 

~~~

 

Jacob has never felt so afraid in his entire life. His big brother Billy is trapped inside that pub with the cops, the blonde scarred Alpha on the balcony has a big gun pointed at Billy.

Most importantly, he is about to disobey the order that the big Alpha gave to him.

He hurries down the stairs through the dark apartment, and opens the door near the garbage cans, taking care that the hinges don’t creak. The tall, slim stranger in the black coat is still waiting for him.

“He told you to stay in building. You and the boys will _not_ stay in the building.”

Jacob’s frenzied heart skips a beat at that, “He’s – he’s got a gun, Mr. Altamont!”

“Not one. Two. One sniper rifle and one handgun inside the holster on the left of his hip. Do you want to save your brother?”

Jacob nods wordlessly. The other boys seem to know this man with the big coat, and he spoke of Billy as if he knew him. He can trust him.

“Good. Then do as I say. With any luck, we will save your brother and one innocent person who only wanted a chance at a better life.”

 

* * *

_The Buffalo_ , Chicago. Wednesday. 21st April, 1914. 9:49 pm

 

Happy hours had begun in _The Buffalo_ at 9.

Until the cops had come.

But it’s not a setback for Sherlock at all. For he knows all its ins and outs. But the burning question is: what are the odds of having an employee under Von Bork disguised as a barmaid in _The Buffalo_ stop sending updates to her real employer just near the time he had been sent away to the same employer?

It ceases to remain a coincidence. The person Moran is going to kill tonight is exactly the person who manipulated McCarthy into thinking that Sherlock should be sent to Boston.

Sherlock has tried to recall the faces of the women that worked at _The Buffalo_ in his time, but he cannot recall anyone suspicious, anyone too clever to be working in a pub. He never paid much attention to the women in the first place; he didn’t talk to them, and they didn’t talk to him. Whoever this woman is, she served her purpose well, is good at what she does.

And she has defected, meaning that she will be open to giving him information, especially about why Von Bork is so interested in Mycroft.

He needs her alive.

He’s taken the right decision by following Moran from the motel.˛

The only thing Sherlock needs to be careful about now is that Moran doesn’t see him through the lens of the sniper. Thankfully, the boys Moran has hired are the ones Sherlock has worked with in the past. He has paid the boys to lock him inside the flat, in case Moran sees Sherlock and decides to follow him. He’d paid the youngest of them, a Beta called Jacob, to call the police, only as a last measure. He knew his brother, Bill, personally, back when he was part of his Homeless Network.

He’d tried to convince himself that Moran should be convicted, but he knows the punishment for treason in England. And he can’t have that. He can’t have Moran dead.

Sneaking from one alleyway to another, Sherlock keeps a vigilant watch over his shoulder. It’s not easy to spot someone fully dressed in black, especially in dark corners, but still. This is Colonel Sebastian Moran, the best marksman there was in His Majesty’s Army. Sherlock has no clue about the limits and the extent of his keen eyesight.

Finally, he finds the brick building he’s looking for. The brown door can almost be mistaken for part of the wall in the darkness. Sherlock takes a glance over his shoulder, and his heart skips a beat.

The building where Moran is stationed is visible from here.

He kneels, and finds the padlock on the door. Within five minutes it is open. This route, to the best of his memory, leads directly to a private smoking parlour, and through that, to the main room where most of the men enjoy their time wallowing in drinks and their wives’ misery. Bill is expected to be there, along with the woman. He’ll know her just by looking at her. How many women with the history of actively working with criminals are contended to serve nasty Alphas their alcohol during their retirement?

The passage opens behind a supposedly wooden wall in the parlour. It’s dark; no one’s dared to venture in here, not even the cops.

“Where are you, Billy?” he whispers to himself. There is some commotion outside, but not the kind you usually hear in a pub. It’s a loud authoritative voice, unnecessarily commanding. There’s a crash, and Sherlock ducks, watches the scene through the window.

The main room is brightly lit, with mostly men scurried to one side, red-eyed and dazed. Some of them look very scared. And then Sherlock traces the source of their fear to a central space of the floor. Sherlock’s eyes widen.

Breckenridge’s secret stash of weapons had finally been discovered.

There are five policemen in uniform, and three in civilian dress. They are not local police. They are the Bureau. And they have McCarthy and Breckenridge and several other people in handcuffs.

Who the hell has called the Bureau down on Breckenridge’s place?

“Mr. Altamont? Is – is that you?”

The familiar voice of Bill Wiggins softly calls out from the shadow behind him. Sherlock turns around instantly.

“Billy! Come here.”

The frightened Alpha, only three years younger than him, and still in dark about Sherlock’s real gender, scoots over to him.

“How you doing, Mr. Altamont?”

“Good. Did you see how I came in?”

Bill nods solemnly.

“Go out the same way, and keep going till you reach a locked brown-coloured door. Wait for me there. I’ll come to you with a woman I need to rescue. Do you understand?”

Without any hesitation, Bill does a mock salute to Sherlock and creeps into the false wall.

 

* * *

 

“The cops are here!” Mary exclaims as soon as she’s entered John’s torture chambers. She’s dressed him in clean pants and a new white shirt she stole from one of the servant boys’ things. He has almost healed, ready to journey fast enough to leave behind any devil in their pursuit.

The envelope that carried pips had the Boston postmark. Her past, that had forced her to work under Von Bork’s protection from the ex-Confederates, is finally catching up with her. And with seven months of no-contact, she can’t expect them to be too pleased about seeing her again.

“Cops?”

“Policemen, and the Bureau. Your ‘Mycroft’ has some bloody good timing.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“Of course not,” she looks at him and smiles with relief. This ‘Mycroft’ has to be someone in the upper echelons of the government. But if they escape, John would have to go back to this ‘Mycroft’, report to him. And they would discover her. And that would be the end of her free life.

“They won’t come this way, right?”

“No, the door isn’t discernible from the wallpaper and hidden by the drapes . Besides, this room is meant to be hidden. Once they leave with Breckenridge, McCarthy and Blair, we can get out of here easily.”

John nods, and leans against the wall, breathing deeply. Mary looks away, trying her best to ignore the surge of protectiveness that she felt towards John. This is a time to keep her mind clear of any distracting thoughts. She and Joh will have to be absolutely silent while the raid for the stock of arms went on. They would hear the cops go away, and only then, they can get out of there. She had stolen some black hair dye that one of the bar maids used to conceal her greys, and she had dyed John’s golden hair jet black so that no one can identify him. John was a reasonable man, had let her dye his hair without a single word of protest.

Soon, John turns to give her a victorious smile, and she has to look away for a split second to get rid of her silly, fond grin, “John, there’s something we need to discuss.”

“Okay.”

“About what you plan to do after we get away.”

John frowns and blinks at her, “I’ve – um, given some thought to it. You, well – I will eventually have to go back to Mycroft, but I can’t. Not until I’ve found Sherlock.”

Mary waits patiently, waits for him to say it.

“You said Sherlock is in Boston. You said you delivered him there, to your boss. The boss you’ve been hiding from. So it’s better if we –”

“Yes, I agree too,” she begins, “We should go our separate ways.”

“– stick together,” John finishes.

They gape at each other for some moments before starting to offer their own explanations with much stammering and contradicting. Mary’s heart is hammering against her chest. Just some days ago, John had rejected her. But now he wants her to come with him. Then John puts up a hand, “We’re not making sense at all. Let me speak first.”

Mary nods mutely, looking down.

“You won’t be safe if you go alone. And I don’t think I know the road to Boston. Better two than one.”

“Do you honestly think I’ll be able to watch you get back with Sherlock and stay with you two while you fuck like rhinos every time he’s in Heat?”

“Mary!” John growls warningly.

“I’m sorry, John, but I’d rather keep running for my life than stick around to watch that.”

“Would you keep it down a bit? What else do you expect me to do? Stop looking for Sherlock? Stop doing what I came to America for?”

Mary doesn’t verbalise it, but the look on John’s face tells her that he knows what she’s thinking.

“Do you know that my leave got over a week ago, and now I’m AWOL?”

“Why is it suddenly my fault that you want me to come with you, and I don’t want to?”

John points at her accusingly, “Don’t you give me that lie!”

Mary can’t stand it. Where is that stalwart John Watson who refused to tell her his real name, who refused to rat out his Bonded, who took beating and torture day after day without any word of protest, who rejected her because he was Bonded to someone else? Someone he hadn’t even known if he was alive or not? Where’s that good, brave, honest man she had fallen for?

Just as she is about to open her mouth in retaliation, there is a scuffing noise outside the door. Mary and John go absolutely still. The boots outside the door are heavy, and the fingers knock on the false wall outside. John looks at her and mouths, “Where’s my pistol?”

Mary slips her hand into her blouse, and retrieves the pistol from between her breasts, handing it to him. Slips another hand into the pocket in her tunic and hands him the bullets. Wordlessly, John fills the magazine and points the pistol at the door.

There’s the sound of someone removing the drapes outside. Mary feels puzzled. Only a person who knows the ins and outs of the pub knew that there was a secret door for prisoners in there. But everyone who knows the place is in the drinks parlour, with the cops. Has someone escaped?

She crouches near the door, ready to spring upon the intruder when a voice, an unfamiliar deep baritone rings out, “Open the door, woman. I know you’re in there.”

Mary’s heart gives out. The pips. It’s them. They’ve arrived for her. She looks down at her shaking knees, thinking of her fate. And John? What would they do with John? She had brought the devil upon him too.

 _Oh Lord_ , in what feels like her final moments, she reaches out to the God she’s never believed in, _please let him live._

And then she turns to look at John. The look on his face, it almost makes her forget her own fears for a moment.

The colour has disappeared from his face. His hands aren’t steady anymore. He isn’t steady anymore. He takes a step back, looking so fragile. His breathing is audible, as if with so much effort . . .

“I knew you were here. You weren’t up there, with the other girls.”

Mary isn’t listening to the strange voice anymore. She’s only looking at John’s blanched face.

“The pips weren’t sent by the KKK, woman,” the voice becomes softer, and Mary turns back to face the door at once. He's not the KKK. She knows it. He doesn't sound like one. Not anymore. This isn't their style. They don't announce themselves.

“I imagine you want to know who I am. I’ve come to save you. Two streets away from this pub, on the roof of an apartment building, Colonel Sebastian Moran is waiting for you to do what a defector from KKK would do upon getting the pips. Just so you know, he’s waiting with a gun.”

Mary frowns. Moran? He sent the pips? How did they know?

John unloads the bullets, and fills them in his pocket. The pistol tucked into his trousers, he’s the one to react first. And before Mary can stop him and tell him that this is a trick, John throws the door wide open.

The face at the door is vaguely familiar. Curly black hair, wide forehead, pallid skin and grey eyes. His face was symmetrical and long with almost hollowed cheeks. He was a tall, slim man, tall enough to be an Alpha, but the symmetry and the glow on his face, the feline looks, they make it all very obvious. He was an Omega. He was  _the_ Omega. The one everybody wanted.

Sherlock Holmes looks down at John and frowns in confusion, “What — who are you? Where’s the woman?” And without a second look at John, he pushes past him. His quick eyes find her, and he grabs her arms with almost bruising force, his eyes focused on hers. Mary didn’t know Omegas could be _that_ strong.

The pain jolts her into action, and she tries to shake his grip off. Where did Sherlock Holmes come from? What is he doing here? Why is he here?

“What are you doing here?” She looks past him at John, who looks like he had just been visited by a ghost. He’s looking at her as if he’s forgotten who she is, as if the only other person in the room besides him is Sherlock.

“We have to leave now. The moment you step out of the building, he will kill you, and I need you alive.”

A growl comes from behind Sherlock, “Where have you left my son?”

Without turning, and without looking away, Sherlock cocks his head, “Answer his question fast and come with me.”

“I’m not asking her, I’m asking you!”

Mary gulps. The anger in his voice is evident, and Sherlock has noted it too, for he turns back with confusion written on his face, “What?”

Mary’s knees give away, and she crumbles to the ground. It has come too fast, the end of their time together, “John . . .”

And then Sherlock finally notices the blue eyes beneath the black dyed hair and realisation dawns upon him. They don’t touch each other, they simply stare. John looks away, but Sherlock looks like he’s gone into shock.

Only after too long a time does Sherlock utter a hollow echo, “John, how —?”

“Where is our son, Sherlock Holmes?”

“B-back at the motel. Where we—I’m staying. He’s sleeping,” the surety that had been there in Sherlock’s voice when he’d been talking to Mary is simply gone now.

“Have you left him with someone?”

Mary looks from Sherlock to John, feeling increasingly out of place. If Colonel Moran is here, then they are all in grave danger, “John, we have to move.”

John ignores her, his eyes only for Sherlock. Accusatory, furious, unlike everything Mary had thought John would be when she saw them reunited.

“Tell me you haven’t left our son alone.”

Her pleading voice zones Sherlock out of his dazed state, “John, listen to her. We have to go —”

“TELL ME YOU HAVEN’T LEFT HIM ALONE!”

“John!” Mary’s first instinct is to clap a palm over his mouth to silence him. She knows how violent angry Alphas could be, but if John is still the man she fell for, he won’t strike her back, “Calm down. Right now, there are cops upstairs. And outside the pub, a man is waiting to kill me. We have to move.”

John’s eyes snap shut and he finally looks at Mary with recognition. The lost look is gone, “Right.”

“We’ve been preparing for this for days,” she whispers, wishing she could still kiss him in case she didn’t make it alive, “It’s time to leave.”

John finally straightens up, fixes Sherlock with a hard look, and then turns on his heels towards the route they had planned together in case they needed to leave suddenly. Grey, puzzled eyes fix on Mary, and she looks past her shoulder and into Sherlock’s accusatory eyes.

He knows.

Burying her guilt under the adrenaline, she closes the door behind her, prepared to face death.

Tells herself that it is not her time. Not yet.

 

* * *

 

“That the last of it, Chief?” Inspector Rob Denham releases a last puff of smoke, and crushes the stub under his boots. He fixes Malcolm Breckenridge’s stubborn eyes with a hard look. They had it coming for long. Had it not been for widespread stories about the Irish gang’s workings, he would not have acted upon an anonymous tip, regardless whether orders came from up high in the Bureau or not.

“Yes, inspector. All rooms have been searched.”

Denham smirks and turns to the man standing next to Breckenridge, the one with the steel tooth that is called McCarthy, “Been savin’ up for a rainy day, have you?

McCarthy looks at him defiantly and replies in a gruff voice, “You bet.”

The tone of his voice is ominous but Denham ignores it, looking from one barmaid to another customer and another and another. They are surrounded. His right eyelid twitches slightly as he glances at the pile of arms and the two gunpowder caskets on the floor. It just needs one spark to burn the whole place down. He looks at the burnt-out cigarette. Better not smoke here.

 

* * *

 

Moran checks his pocket watch. It’s almost 10.20pm. The cops are showing no intention to leave. It’s time to spice things up.

The window is unobstructed by any person. Behind that counter is rum caskets. Rum catches fire easily. A fire would draw Mary out. One well-aimed shot could start a fire. And he’s the master of well-aimed shots.

He aims at the window. The rum caskets lie along the line of aim.

And fires.

 

* * *

 

The sound of glass shattering is enough distraction for McCarthy to act. Instantly, he places his handcuffed wrists down Denham’s torso from behind, locking him in suffocating embrace. Bites down hard on his shoulder to incapacitate him for a second to take out his pistol from the holster, poking at his stomach with it.

“You know that if you kill me, you kill yourself too,” Denham manages to say after recovering from the blinding pain in his right shoulder.

“I’m not going to kill you,” McCarthy sneers in his ear, “They are.”

Denham realises it before he even sees the scene in front of them. Only three were handcuffed. The rest were not.

Each policeman is at the mercy of one of their Irish customers. The place where the armaments had been accumulated on the floor is now virtually empty. Everyone, man or woman, had some kind of weapon in their hands, pointed at the eight policemen. The tables were turned.

Malcolm Breckenridge struts leisurely as if there were no handcuffs in his wrist, “Let’s make this a mutually beneficial arrangement, Inspector. I have several prisoners of value inside. Two of them are on your Wanted list. Take some of the arms, and two men from our cell. Write a report detailing how you didn’t find any weapons but you did find two criminals lurking in our bar, and how the brave men in _The Buffalo_ helped in their arrest.”

Denham looks at him defiantly. Better live to fight another day than die today, “Names?”

But before Breckenridge can utter the first name, there’s a woman’s cry, “Fire!”

It’s the opportunity for Denham, as he ducks and slips out of McCarthy’s slightly loose embrace, and elbows his chin hard, the base of his skull and neck snapping with a sickening _crack_. Knowing that he won’t make it out of there alive, he grabs the pistol from McCarthy’s grip before any of the bullets hit him. Fires random shots till the third bullet buries itself within him, the lights dimming around him, vision becoming hazier, sounds becoming blurrier . . .

He collapses on the floor, and his eyes see red. Blood, from his mouth, on his hands, on the floor . . .

In the din around him, there is the distant sound of an explosion. He closes his eyes. Goes to sleep before the fire can touch him.

 

* * *

 

In the distance, there’s a loud sound of an explosion, and the scream of people. The woman is the first to break the determined silence that Sherlock and John had imposed upon themselves.

“What was that?”

Sherlock stops too, the woman’s interruption a welcome intervention into his conflicted thoughts thrown into disarray. They are going through the dark route out of the smoking parlour, to the door where Billy is waiting for Sherlock.

“That’s what happens when Sebastian Moran gets impatient and explodes the building to draw out his victim.”

“Oh God,” the woman reels with panic, “I’m _really_ going to die, aren’t I?”

“Not if we stick together, Mary,” John grabs her wrist and keeps walking ahead resolutely.

Mary. Her name is Mary. Small-town. Born Roman Catholic, now an atheist. Bar maid. Secretive. Liar.

Sherlock looks at them, at their interactions. Then deciding that he had to shut down his feelings so that they can get out of there without being spotted by Sebastian, and make it to Thomas and . . . after that?

John’s right. How could he leave Thomas alone in the motel? What if someone gets into their room? Sherlock had tested the locks and the window before he had left the room, but still . . .

Sherlock shakes his head. Too many questions he doesn’t know the answer to.

“I think we’re near the exit,” Sherlock remarks to them softly and then calls out, “Billy! You there?”

“Yes, Mr. Altamont! I thought you was gone but—”

Billy is suddenly cut off by a deafening blast, two blocks away. The stone floor under them shudders to life. Rum and gun do not mix well. Dust showers from the ceiling, but Sherlock estimates that is strong enough to withstand cracks.

Just as he thinks that, Mary cries out, “Get back! It’s going to collapse.”

In a split second, John pushes them both backwards when the section of the ceiling couple of meters in front of them gives away. A scream on the other side of the collapse tells Sherlock, to his great relief, that Billy is safe. Motioning Mary and John to go back the way they have come, Sherlock tiptoes to see as far as he can. Only darkness and dust so far. This route had been the perfect cover. To go the other way is as good as delivering Mary right into Sebastian’s hands.

“Billy! We are blocked on this side. Get out of there. Take your brother and stay away from Mr. Mor — Spring, okay?”

“It’s locked, Mr. Altamont! The door’s locked!”

“Pick it! You remember how I taught you?”

“A bit.”

“You’ve got to help yourself Billy. I can’t help you here.”

“Okay, Mr. Altamont. I’ll try.”

The other route, the one that they have to go through now, is shorter but much unsafe. And with possibly fire two blocks away, Sebastian would be able to see them better.

The odds are vehemently stacked against them.

 

* * *

 

By 10:35 pm, Moran, waiting, watching through the lens patiently, is aware of three suspicious looking figures emerging through the neighbouring shop’s gate. _The Buffalo_ had shot up into flames within minutes of firing the shots. But his bullet had only been the ignitor. The catalyst seemed to be gunfire from within the club.

One of the figures looks suspiciously familiar. Tall, bony, slim, male. The other male is a short stout raven-haired sample, and the third . . .

It’s her. Mary Morstan. The short blond hair, the walking style, it’s unmistakeable.

He holds the rifle steady and aims carefully, and right before he is about to squeeze the trigger, the tall man turns around to look directly at him, as if looking for something in his direction.

As if looking for him.

Moran’s trigger finger freezes. He’d recognise that face anywhere. He’s told that face the deepest, darkest secrets of his life. Opened himself up to that sweet, young, clever, scheming, traitorous face.

He blinks, and looks again. The three have begun running now. They know him. They are expecting him.

Moran utters a curse and holds the rifle steady again. And then he recognises the third person, in spite of the dye. He wouldn’t have recognised him if not for the Omega who had just betrayed him in the worst possible manner and in every possible manner. Because when he thinks of Sherlock, he thinks of all the Alphas that have touched him, and he thinks of rubbing off the memory of each of those Alphas one by one, with tongue and teeth and bruises.

Rational thinking out of the window. Mary doesn’t matter anymore. Fury does. Betrayal does. Oh, he’ll hurt Sherlock for this. Hurt him so bad that he will not be able to look up anymore. Will not be able to salvage himself anymore.

Moran switches his target, and aims for Sherlock’s Bonded’s skull.

And Sherlock looks back at him again. Moran vows never to fall again for that lost vulnerable look in his eyes.

Squeezes the trigger as hard as he can. Keeps firing. One of them will hit the Alpha. Maybe all will, but none of that matters. He is not Moran the marksman anymore. Moran the marksman doesn’t fire aimlessly, hoping it’ll kill.

He doesn’t know who he is. All he knows right now is that doing that satisfies him.

But the real satisfaction is not killing a man that everyone believed was dead for two years. The real satisfaction was killing something that _was_ not even two years old.

Silly little Omega. Left his golden boy back at the motel.

Sherlock will pay for it with every inch of his body and soul.

 

\---

 

**End of Part II**


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